f 


I  J^ 


I 


BLACK 


SHANDON     BELLS 


/ 


SHANDON  BELLS. 


CHAPTER  I. 

"OVER    EUNNING    WATER." 

So  STILL  this  niglit  was.     The  white  moonlight  lay  o 
the  sleeping  world  ;  tllji^^a^t^   was  calm  ;  the  little  1 
Dor  town   of  Liisheen,  with  alF' its  picturesque  squaloi  oi 
quays  and  creeks  and  stranded  boats,  had  gone  to  rest ;   ind 
here,  higli  up  in  this  inland  glen  (from  which  the  sea  vva.4 
visible  only  as  a  sharp  line  of  silver  at  the  horizon),  am  p  r 
the  felled   trees  and   the  brushwood,  there  was  no  soui c 
save  the  continuous   "hush — sh — sh  "  of  the  streamlet  f.i;' 
below  in  the  darkness.     Nor  was  tli^re  any  sign  of  lif .  m 
this   open  glade — not  even    a  rabbit  out  browsing  on  ^i  '^ 
dew-wet  grass,  or  a  curlew  crossing  the  clear  depths  o" 
blue-gray  sky  in  its  flight  from  the  moor  to  the  shore,     v  '.i'; 
the  moonlight  shining  calm  and  still  on  the  wildernes-^  ?•)' 
bramble  and  bracken  and  furze,  and  here  and  there  on  1 1'^ 
white  stump  of  a  felled  beech  or  ash  ;  and  always  the  ;  .  i- 
rnur,  down  below,  of  the  unseen  rivulet  on  its  way  to  the 
Blackwater  and  the  sea. 

But  by  and  by,  along  the  road  over  there,  that  v  ^ 
barred  across  by  the  shadows  of  some  tall  elms,  two  pc  j 
came  slowly  walking,  and  the  cheerful  sound  of  their  S]  liv- 
ing was  clear  in  the  stillness. 

"  The  more  I  think  of  it,"  said  one  of  them,  who  v  >  a 
very  pretty,  slightly  formed  young  lady  with  eyes  as  ^    u  < 


2  SHANDON  BELLS. 

as  the  sloe,  a  mouth  that  could  assume  a  most  piquant  ex 
pression,  and  a  voice  that  was  soft  and  musical  and  laugh- 
ing— '*  the  more  I  think  of  it,  this  seems  the  most  extraor- 
dinary escapade  I  ever  entered  upon.  Altogetlier  a  most 
decorous  proceeding!  I  suppose  by  this  time  every  soul 
in  Inisheen  is  fast  asleep ;  and  no  doubt  Miss  Romayne  is 
supposed  to  be  asleep  too  and  dreaming  of  the  Conserva- 
toire and  her  d^but  at  Covent  Garden  ;  while  as  for  Master 
Willie,  if  he  were  to  be  missed,  of  course  they'd  imagine  he 
was  away  after  the  wild-duck  again,  so  it  would  be  all  right 
for  him.  Sure  I  think,"  she  added,  altering  her  voice 
slightly,  and  speaking  very  shyly — "  sure  I  think  'tis  I  am 
the  wild-duck  that  Masther  Willie  is  afther." 

*'  Do  you  know  Kitty,"  said  her  companion,  who  was 
taller  and  fairer  than  she :  a  young  fellow  of  two-and- 
twenty,  perhaps,  with  light  brown  wavy  hair,  the  shrewdest 
of  clear  blue  eyes,  and  a  well-set,  slim  figure — "  do  you 
know,  Kitty,  when  you  speak  in  our  Irish  way  like  that, 
my  heart  is  just  full  of  love  for  you." 

"  Oh,  indeed  •!  "  she  said,  in  a  tone  of  surprise.  "  Oh, 
indeed  !     And  at  other  times  what  is  it  full  of,  then  ?  " 

"  Well,  at  other  times,"  he  said,  "  at  other  times,  you 
see — Avell,  at  other  times,  Kitty,  do  you  know,  it  is  just 
full  of  love  for  you.  Never  mind,  When  I  go  to  Eng- 
land I'll  soon  get  rid  of  the  Cork  accent ;  and  when  I  come 
back  to  you,  Kitty " 

"  Indeed  you  may  save  yourself  the  trouble,"  she  inter- 
posed, promptly.  "  I  am  not  going  to  have  any  stranger 
come  back  to  me.  I  am  going  to  have  nobody  but  my  wild 
Irish  boy,  with  whatever  accent  he  has,  and  with  all  the — 
the  cheek  he  is  not  likely  to  get  rid  of  anywhere.  There's 
no  other  word  for  it,  I  declare.  Such  cheek  as  never  was 
heard  of  !  Do  you  know,  sir,  that  I  sang  at  the  '^"""*"i 
Palace  with  Titiens  and  Santley  ?  " 

"You've  reminded  me  of  it  pretty  often,  Kitt 
the  meek  reply. 

"Yes;  and  Miss  Catherine  Romayne,  who  has  a!' 

Dublin  wild  with  her  singing  of  Irish  songs,  wh  '  '  * 
make  engagements  all  over  Ireland  for  the  resi 
natural  life,  comes  to  Cork — to  find  herself  patroii  -^  -v  '^- j 
the  Cork  Chronicle!  The  Corh  CAromc^e,  indeed !  And 
It  isn't  the  editor,  mind  you,  but  only  the  sub-edito  ^1'^"" 
he  sweep  out  the  office  too? — that  has  undertaker 
the  praises  of  Miss  Romayne,  and  make  the  whole  v*r,uni:<y 


SHANDON  BELLS.  7 

might  as  well  get  some  independent  testimony  about  the 
character  of  my  husband  that  is  to  be.  Oli,  I  assure  you  I 
was  most  discreet.  Andy  the  Hopper,  if  tliat  is  his  name, 
had  very  little  notion  why  I  wanted  to  know  this  or  that 
about  the  Fitzgeralds,  and  especially  about  Mr.  William 
Fitzgerald.  Would  you  like  to  know  how  he  described  you, 
Willie?" 

"  If  Andy  the  Hopper  has  been  saying  anything  against 
me — I  mean  to  you,  Kitty — I'll  beat  the  blackguard  with 
his  own  pole  till  there's  not  an  incli  of  whole  skin  on  him," 
was  her  companion's  decisive  reply. 

**  '  Is  it  Masther  Willie  ye  mane  ?  '  he  said.  I  said  it 
was.  '  Sure,  miss,  '  tis  the  duck's  back  that  Masther  Willie 
has  got,  and  trouble  runs  off  it  like  water.  At  the  very 
ind  of  the  day  if  he  was  to  lose  the  biggest  salmon  ever 
hooked  in  the  Black  water,  d'ye  think  he'd  be  afther  sittin* 
down  and  cryin  '  ?  Divil  a  bit — begging  your  pardon,  miss. 
He'd  be  whistlin'  the  ould  tunes  as  he  put  up  the  rod ;  and 
thin  away  home  wid  his  spaches  and  his  singing  and  his 
poethry,  and  a  laugh  and  a  joke  for  all  the  gyurls  that  he'd 
meet.  Glory  be  to  God,  miss,  but  'tis  Masther  Willie  has 
the  light  heart.'  But  wait  a  moment,  Master  Willie.  I 
thought  that  phrase  about  the  gyurls  a  little  singular — or 
rather  it  isn't  singular,  for  it's  plural.  How  many  gyurls 
is  an  Irish  young  gentleman  supposed  to  be  in  love  with  at 
the  same  time  ?    Don't  I  know  the  song, — 

*  Here's  a  health  to  the  girls  that  we  loved  lojig  ago, 
Where  the  Shannon,  the  Liffey,  and  Blackwater  flow '  ? 

—Why  'girls'?" 

"Why  not,  Kitty?  The  song  is  about  the  Irish 
Brigade.  You  wouldn't  have  the  whole  brigade  in  love 
with  one  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know  ;  it  sounds  suspicious  ;  and  I  suppose  we 
are  not  more  than  a  stone's-throw  from  the  Blackwater 
now.  But  you  may  re-assure  yourself.  Master  Willie.  I 
was  very  discreet.  I  put  no  questions  about  the  guryl? 
to  the  gentleman  in  the  red  jacket ;  and  so  he  went  on 
to  say  you  were  a  great  sportsman,  and  to  give  me  many 
stories  of  midnight  adventures  you  and  he  had  had 
■^  after  the  wild-fowl." 

■'s  all  over  now,  Kitty,"  said  he,  looking  away 

ae  shallows  and  the  mud-j9ats  of  the  wide  bay  of 

-,  where  many  a  time  he   had  brought  a  mallard 


8  SIIANDON  BELLS, 

thumping  down,  or  listened  to  the  clang  of  a  string  of  wild, 
geese  far  overhead  in  the  dark.  "  London  is  a  terriblo 
place  to  be  alone  in»  I  remember  the  first  time  I  Avent 
there,  and  saw  the  miles  and  miles  of  streets  and  houses, 
and  the  strange  faces,  and  the  crowds  hurrying  and  hurry- 
ing and  hurrying.  I  said  to  myself  I  should  lose  heart 
altogether  if  I  were  to  find  myself  alone  in  such  a  tremen- 
dous ocean,  fighting  to  keep  my  head  above  water.  Better 
the  Cork  Chronicle^  and  an  ambition  limited  to  the  pub- 
lishing of  one  small  volume  of  poems  some  day,  and,  for 
the  rest  of  it,  over  the  bog  after  snipe  or  up  the  mountain 
after  liares  with  Andy  the  Hopper.  And  then  you  must 
needs  come  along,  Kitty,  and  spoil  all  my  content.  Even 
now  I  fear  I  am  going  to  London  against  my  better  judg- 
ment. Having  you,  Kitty,  what  do  I  want  with  fame  or 
money?  " 

"  Stuff !  I  know  you  are  fearfully  ambitious,  Master 
Willie,  though  you  won't  own  it.  Would  you  like  to  go 
on  forever  as  the  sub-editor  of  the  Cork  Chronicle?  Would 
you  have  me  keep  singing  away  at  concerts  until  my  little 
share  of  good  looks  was  gone,  and  then  the  public  would 
discover  there  was  nothing  in  ray  singing  at  all  ?  I  am 
certain  your  philosophy  is  all  pretence.  I  don't  believe 
Andy  the  Hopper  a  bit  when  he  says  you'd  only  whistle  an 
ould  tune  or  spake  poethry  after  losing  a  big  fish ;  I  believe 
you  would  be  much  nearer  crying  with  vexation.  You 
don't  impose  an  me.  Master  Willie;  and  we  will  see  some 
day  whether  London  is  too  big  for  you  to  fight." 

"  If  it  was  tho  old  times,  Kitty,  and  I  could  start  with  a 
shield  and  a  spear  and  your  ribbon  round  my  arm :  that 
would  be  something  like  the  thing.  But  at  any  rate  I  can 
carry  your  name  in  ray  heart." 

She  stopped  and  took  his  head  in  her  two  hands,  and 
pulled  it  down  and  kissed  hira  lightly  on  the  forehead. 

"  That  is  where  the  victor's  crown  is  to  be,"  she  said. 

"  I  am  not  thinking  of  any  victor's  crown,"  said  he. 
"  I  am  thinking  of  the  trip  that  you  and  I  will  make,  every 
seven  years,  to  this  old  place  of  Inisheen,  and  our  going 
over  the  old  walks  again,  and  thinkir^^^f  old  times.     And 
the  day  may  corae,  Kitty,  when  gei 
bank  may- be  too  much  for  frail  old  1 
Fierna  will  excuse   us,  if  we   makt 
show  hini  that  we  liave  not  separatee 
to  go  down  to  the  well." 


SHANDON  BELLS.  9 

<'  Seven  years,"  she  said,  musingly.  "  It  is  a  long  time, 
Willie " 

But  he  did  not  hear  her.  He  had  stepped  down  to 
unmoor  a  small  boat  that  lay  half  hidden  in  the  shadow  of 
a  creek.  When  he  was  ready  he  called  to  her  ;  and  then 
he  assisted  her,  with  the  most  affectionate  care,  into  the 
stern  of  the  boat,  and  pulled  her  shawl  close  at  the  neck, 
and  generally  had  her  made  comfortable.  Then  he  took 
the  oars,  and  in  a  few  moments  they  had  shot  out  into  the 
broad  and  shallow  and  moonlit  waters  of  the  inner  bay  of 
Inisheen.  As  yet  they  could  talk  together  openly  without 
fear  of  being  overheard  from  the  shore;  for  Inisheen 
itself — a  tumbled  mass  of  houses  and  quays  and  vessels — ' 
lay  away  along  there  between  them  and  the  Atlantic. 

"  Besides,"  continued  Miss  Romayne,  as  if  she  had  been 
resuming  some  argument,  "  you  say  yourself  this  is  such  a 
chance  as  you  might  never  get  again." 

"  Well,  it  is  a  chance,"  he  answered,  slowly  pulling  away 
at  the  short  (and  muffled)  oars.  "  Fancy  Hilton  Clarke 
being  in  Inisheen,  and  no  one  knowing  it." 

"  Perhaps  they  were  all  as  wise  as  I  was,  Willie,  and 
had  never  heard  his  name  before." 

"  You  must  have  heard  his  name,  Kitty,"  he  said,  im- 
patiently. *'  Why,  he  is  one  of  the  most  distinguished  men 
of  letters  in  England." 

'<But  what  has  he  done,  Willie  ?  " 

*•*  Oh,  everything,"  he  said,  rather  confusedly.  **  Every 
one  knows  who  he  is.  There  is  scarcely  a  better  known 
name  in  contemporary  literature." 

"  But  what  has  he  done,  Willie  ?  I  might  get  it  and 
read  it,  you  know." 

"  Why,  he  is  one  of  the  greatest  critics  of  the  day — 
writes  for  all  sorts  of  things  :  there  is  no  one  better  known. 
He  is  said  to  have  the  finest  jiidgment  in  literary  matters 
of  almost  anybody  living ;  and  the  reviews  that  he  writes 
are  always  so  scholarly,  and — and  full  of  happy  ingenu- 
ities of  expression — any  one  can  recognize  tliem ^'' 

"  Yes,"  said  the  pertinacious  young  lady  with  the 
pretty  mouth  and  the  soft  dark  eyes,  "  but  hasn't  he  done 
anything  himself  ?  Hasn't  he  done  any  work  of  his  own  ? 
Couldn't  I  buy  a  book  of  his  to  let  me  know  something 
more  of  your  wonderful  hero  ?  " 

"  Well,  I  believe  he  translated  Les  Fleurs  du  Mai — the 
original  edition;  but  the  book  was  privately  printed." 


10  SI/A NB ON  BELLS. 

"  I  am  sure  I  never  heard  of  it,  in  English  or  anything 
else,"  said  she. 

"Perhaps  you  never  heard  of  Beaudelaire  either, 
Kitty,"  said  he,  gently.  "  You  see  it  would  be  easy  for 
you  to  puzzle  me  about  the  distinguished  people  in  music, 
I  know  so  little  about  what's  going  on  in  music." 

"  Oh,  very  well,"  said  she,  good-naturedly,  "  let  him  be 
as  distinguished  as  you  like ;  that  can't  make  him  an  agree, 
able-looking  man." 

"  I  consider  him  very  handsome,"  he  said,  in  astonish- 
ment. 

*'  What !  that  lanky,  supercilious,  white-faced  creature, 
with  his  stony  stare  ?  " 

ITe  burst  out  laughing. 

"  I  do  believe  you're  jealous,  Kitty.  Why,  you  only 
saw  him  for  a  second  at  the  door  of  the  Imperial,  and  you 
have  never  spoken  to  him.  I  consider  him  an  extremely 
fine  fellow,  and  the  trouble  he  took  about  me — a  perfect 
stranger  to  him — was  quite  extraordinary.  It  was  indeed 
a  chance,  my  running  against  him  at  all.  You  know, 
Kitty,"  said  he — though  there  was  a  slight  blush  on  his 
face — "  I  am  not  ashamed  of  my  father  keeping  an  inn,  or  a 
public  house,  or  whatever  you  may  call  it — " 

"  An  inn  !  "  she  exclaimed.  "  A  public  house  I  The 
Impayrial  Hotel — the  only  hotel  in  Inisheen — to  be  talked 
of  like  that." 

" — but  all  the  same  when  I  come  here  I  don't  go  into 
the  smoking-room.  It  is  always  filled  with  those  Coursing 
Club  people ;  and  the  Duke  of  Wellington  '  wrenched, 
killed,  and  won  like  a  hero';  and  Sweetbrier  was  '  slow 
from  the  slips  '  ;  and  Timothy  '  scored  first  turn  ' ;  and  Miss 
Maguirc  'finished  with  the  most  lovely  mill';  and  all  the 
rest  of  the  jargon.  Indeed  I'd  rather  go  to  another  inn,  if 
there  was  one,  when  I  come  to  Inisheen  ;  but  that  might 
vex  my  father.  Well,  this  stranger  I  didn't  meet  at  the 
inn  at  all,  but  along  the  road,  with  his  basket  and  rod  and 
gaff  all  complete ;  and  as  we  got  talking  about  fishing,  I 
looked  over  his  fly-book  for  him — all  sorts  of  fantastic 
"^nonsense  got  up  in  London  to  look  pretty  in  a  drawing- 
room.  Then  I  offered  to  show  him  some  flies.  Then  it 
turned  out  he  was  staying  at  the  Imperial.  And  then  we 
had  a  long  evening  together — all  contrariwise ;  for  I  found 
out  who  he  was,  and  I  wanted  to  talk  about  all  the  literary 
men  in  London — and  he  seemed  to  know  every  one  of 


SUA ND  ON  BELLS.  1 1 

them  ;  but  lie  wanted  to  talk  about  notliing  but  river  trout 
and  sea  trout  and  grilse  and  sahnoYi,  and  the  different 
rivers  in  the  neigliboi-liood.  But  it  was  a  fine  evening,  all 
the  same ;  and  he  showed  himself  most  friemdly— and  has 
been  so  ever  since,  Miss  Kitty,  in  his  letters.  ^  And  just 
fancy  his  asking  me,  a  young  newspaper  fellow  in  Cork,  to 
come  and  see  him  as  soon  as  I  got  to  London !     If  you 

only  knew  the  position  he  holds But  I  think  we'd 

better  bo  quiet  now,  Kitty,  until  we  get  past  the  town." 

Picturesque  indeed  was  the  old  town  of  Inisheen  on  this 
beautiful  night — the  moonlight  shining  on  the  windows  of 
the  few  houses  on  the  side  of  the  hill  and  on  the  gray  gables 
along  the  harbor,  and  causing  the  golden  cock  on  the  top 
of  the  old  Town-hall  to  gleam  as  if  it  were  a  repetition  of 
the  beacon-light  far  away  there  on  the  cliff  overlooking  the 
sea,  while  heavy  masses  of  shadow  lay  over  the  various 
creeks  and  quays,  where  broad-bottomed  vessels  had  found 
a  berth  in  the  ooze.  But  there  was  another  Inisheen — an 
Inisheen  of  new  and  trim  villas — that  formed  a  fashionable 
watering-place  fronting  tlie  open  sea ;  and  there  ic  was  that 
Miss  Romayne  lodged,  and  thither  it  was  that  Master 
Willie  was  stealthily  rowing.  Indeed,  they  soon  drew 
away  from  the  picturesque  old  town,  and  found  before 
them  the  gently  murmuring  Atlantic,  that  broke  in  a  fringe 
of  silver  foam  all  along  the  level  sands. 

And  Miss  Romayne  was  singing,  too — not  with  the  fine 
contralto  voice  that  she  could  send  ringing  through  a  vast 
hall,  but  humming  to  herself,  as  it  were,  in  a  low  and  gen- 
tle fashion,  "  Farewell !  but  whenever  you  welcome  the 
hour,"  and  putting  a  good  deal  more  pathos  into  the  words 
than  appears  there  if  one  reads  them  in  cold  blood.  For 
she  had  a  pathetic  voice  ;  and  these  two  were  alone  under 
the  shining  heavens  and  on  the  beautiful  calm  sea ;  and 
they  were  young,  and  life  and  love  were  before  them,  and 
also  the  tragic  misery  of  parting. 

"  I  will  bid  you  the  real  good-by  to-night,  Willie,"  she 
said,  "  and  then  I  don't  care  for  fifty  Miss  Patiences  to- 
morrow. You  must  put  me  ashore  at  the  jetty,  and  I  will 
walk  up  alone.  She  is  sure  to  be  asleep.  If  not,  then  I 
was  restless,  and  had  to  go  out  for  a  walk.  And  you  will 
stop  at  the  jetty,  Willie,  until  you  see  me  right  up  at  the 
house,  in  case  Don  Fierna  and  his  little  people  should 
snatch  me  up  and  carry  me  off  to  that  dreadful  glen." 

"  Why  dreadful,  Kitty  ?    Are  you  sorry  ?  " 


12  S HAND  ON  BELLS. 

"  Oh  no — not  sorry.  But  there  is  something  unholy 
about  all  that  happened  there.  If  that  well  were  like  the 
other  wells  about,  that  the  saints  have  blessed,  there  would 
have  been  little  bits  of  ribbon  and  suchlilve  offerings  on 
the  bushes.  .  There  was  nothing  of  that  kind  there.  I  know 
I  wouldn't  go  back  alone  to  that  valley  for  a  million 
pounds." 

He  rested  one  hand  on  the  oars,  and  with  the  other 
reached  over  and  took  hers. 

"  But  I  hope  neitlier  you  nor  I,  Kitty,  will  ever  find 
ourselves  there  alone." 

He  rowed  in  to  the  little  jetty,  and  then  stepped  ashore, 
and  assisted  her  to  follow  on  to  the  gray  stones.  The 
leave-taking  was  a  long  one  ;  there  were  many  assurances 
and  asseverations,  and  a  little  hysterical  crying  on  her  part. 
But  at  last  the  final  good-by  had  to  come,  and  he  put  a 
hand  on  each  of  her  cheeks,  and  held  her  head,  as  though 
he  would  read  to  the  bottom  of  those  soft,  beautiful,  tear- 
bedimmed  eyes. 

"  You  will  never  forget — you  can  not  forget — what  you 
promised  me  to-night,  when  our  hands  were  clasped  over 
the  stream  ?  "* 

"  Is  it  likely  ?  "  she  said,  sobbing  violently.  "  Is  it  likely 
I  shall  forget,  any  single  day  as  long  as  I  live  ?  " 

Then  she  went  away  alone,  and  he  waited,  and  watched 
the  solitary  slight  little  figure  go  along  the  moonlit  road, 
and  up  to  the  house.  There  was  a  flutter  of  a  white  hand- 
kerchief ;  he  returned  that  signal.  He  waited  again  ;  there 
M^as  no  sign.  So  he  got  into  the  boat  again,  and  rowed 
silently  away  to  Inisheen  harbor,  like  one  in  a  dream. 

Only  a  moonlight  night,  and  the  parting  of  two  lovers. 
And  yet  sometimes  such  things  remain  visible  across  the 
years. 


^  CHAPTER  II. 

A    HIGH    CONCLAVE 


That  was  an  eventful  evening  in  the  life  of  young 
Fitzgerald  when  he  made  his  way,  not  without  some  an- 
ward  tremor,  to  the  Albany,  in  order  to  dine  with  Mr.  Hil- 


S HAND  ON  BELLS,  13 

ton  Clarke.  For  not  only  was  that  high  honor  in  store  for 
Iiim,  but  moreover  this  new  friend,  who  had  been  exceed- 
ingly kind  to  him  in  many  ways,  had  promised  he  should 
also  meet  Mr.  Gifford,  the  editor  of  the  Liberal  Beview. 
Imagine  a  boy-lieutenant  just  joined  asked  to  dine  with  the 
Commander-in-Chief  and  his  staff!  Away  in  that  provin- 
cial newspaper  office.  Master  Willie  had  been  accustomed 
to  regard  the  London  Liberal  Heview  as  perhaps  the 
wisest  and  most  original  and  honest  of  modern  jour- 
nals: he  had  many  a  time  clipped  out  its  opinions  and 
quoted  them  prominently  in  the  Cork  Chroiiide ;  he 
had  even  from  week  to  week  studied  the  way  of  writ- 
ing that  characterized  its  columns.  And  here  he  was 
to  meet  the  editor  in  actual  flesh  and  blood  !  To  listen  to 
the  great  critic  and  the  great  journalist  at  once!  More- 
over, he  could  not  help  suspecting  that  Hilton  Clarke  had 
arranged  this  meeting  lest  peradventure  it  might  be  of  some 
service,  near  or  remote,  to  the  young  aspirant.  He  did 
not  know  what  he  had  done  to  deserve  such  kindness,  such 
good  fortune.  How  had  it  all  come  about?  So  far  as  he 
could  see,  merely  through  his  happening  to  know  what  were 
the  best  salmon  flies  for  the  Blackwater. 

Of  course  he  arrived  too  soon,  and  so  had  plenty  of 
time  to  saunter  up  and  down  tlie  echoing  little  thorough- 
fare, and  master  the  lettering  and  numbering  of  the  build- 
ings. But  when  at  last  he  made  his  way  up  the  stone 
staircase  to  the  door  on  the  first  landing,  and  was  met  by 
a  tall  middle-aged  woman  with  a  foreign-looking  cap  on 
her  head,  who,  in  broken  English,  showed  him  where  to 
leave  his  hat  and  coat,  and  then  ushered  him  into  an  apart- 
ment the  like  of  which  he  had  never  seen  in  his  life  before, 
he  began  to  ask  himself  if  he  had  not  made  a  mistake. 
Perhaps  he  would  again  have  demanded  of  the  black-eyed, 
soft-voiced,  grave  person  if  Mr.  Hilton  Clarke  lived  there, 
but  she  had  gone.  However,  it  was  clear  that  some  one 
was  going  to  dine  in  this  room,  for  in  the  middle  of  it  was 
a  small  square  table  very  daintily  laid  out,  and  lit  by  a 
lamp  with  a  pink  and  white  porcelain  shade  that  threw  a 
soft  rosy  glow  around.  So  at  haphazard  he  sat  down, 
and  proceeded  to  gaze  with  a  sort  of  awe  at  the  wonderful 
chamber,  the  treasures  in  which,  if  he  had  known  anything 
about  them,  he  would  have  perceived  to  have  come  from 
all  parts  of  the  world,  but  mostly  from^Yenicc.  From 
Venice  had  come  the  row  of  lustrous  co2)])er  water  vessels 


14  SHANDON  BELLS. 

that  had  been  transformed  into  big  flower-pots,  and  ranged 
along  there  on  the  little  balcony  outside  the  French  win- 
dows ;  also  the  quaint  and  delicate  white  and  gold  chairs 
and  couches  that  were  now  dim  with  age  ;  and  perhaps, 
too,  the  framed  chalice-cloth  over  the  chimney-piece,  the 
beautiful  rich  embroidery  of  which  appeared  to  be  falling 
away  by  its  own  weight  from  the  frail  silken  ground.  But 
there  was  a  large  inlaid  Spanish  cabinet  in  scarlet  and 
lacquered  brass  that  was  itself  a  blaze  of  color ;  and  there 
were  Kirwan  rugs  scattered  about  the  floor;  and  on  the 
walls  were  gorgeous  masses  of  Turkish  embroidery;  like- 
wise a  series  of  candles  in  sconces,  over  each  of  which  was 
hung  a  piece  of  Hispano-Moresque  pottery,  the  red  glow 
from  these  large  dishes  completing  the  barbaric  splendor 
of  the  place.  For  the  rest,  there  was  a  good  deal  of  Moor- 
ish metal  and  ivory  work  about ;  but  there  was  not  a  pic- 
ture nor  an  engraving  on  the  walls,  nor  a  book  nor  a  news- 
paper anywhere. 

i  Presently  a  door  opened,  and  Hilton  Clarke  appeared. 

"  How  are  you,  Fitzgerald  ?     Glad  to  see  you." 

There  was  a  moment's  pause. 

"  Oh,  will  you  excuse  me  for  a  second  ?  " 

As  he  disappeared  into  the  bedroom  again,  a  mighty 
qualm  shot  to  the  heart  of  young  Fitzgerald.  His  host 
was  in  evening  dress.  He  glanced  at  the  table,  which  was 
laid  out  for  four:  no  doubt  the  other  two  guests  would  be 
in  evening  dress  also  !  The  mere  thought  of  it  was  agony. 
It  was  not  that  they  might  consider  him  a  country  bump- 
kin ;  it  was  that  they  might  think  him  failing  in  due  re- 
spect to  themselves.  He  had  had  no  idea  that  London  men 
of  letters  lived  like  this.  Even  if  he  had  brought  his  rusty 
old  suit  of  evening  dress  from  Ireland,  he  would  probably 
never  have  thought  of  putting  it  on  to  go  to  dinner  at  a 
bachelor's  rooms.  He  wished  himself  a  hundred  miles 
away  from  the  place.  He  ought  never  to  have  accepted 
an  invitation  to  meet  great  people  until  he  had  himself  done 
something.  It  served  him  right  for  his  presumption.  And 
would  they  think  it  was  out  of  disrespect  ?  Would  it  be 
better  for  him  to  explain  and  apologize  ?  Or  to  make 
some  excuse  now,  and  get  rapidly  away  ? 

In  a  very  few  minutes  his  host  appeared  again — in 
morning  costume. 

"  I  think  you're  right,  Fitzgerald,"  he  said,  carelessly, 


SHANDON  BELLS.  15 

as  he  flung  himself  into  an  easy  chair.     "  A  shooting  coat 
will  be  more  comfortable  ;  it's  got  qii:te  chilly  to-night." 

Fitzgerald's  heart  leaped  up  with  ••ratitude.  Was  not 
this,  he  asked  himself,  the  action  of  a  true  gentleman — an 
action  prompted  by  an  instinctive  courtesy  quick  to  take 
into  consideration  the  feelings  of  others  ?  He  was  half  in- 
clined to  be  angry  with  Kitty — poor  Kitty  who  Avas  so  far 
away  !  But  he  would  write  to  her  :  he  would  challenge 
her  to  say  whether  this  little  bit  of  courtesy,  trifling  as  it 
might  appear,  was  not  a  safe  indication  of  character. 

And  it  must  be  confessed  that  Kitty  was  quite  wilfully 
Avrong  when  she  refused  to  perceive  that  her  lover's  new 
acquaintance  was  handsome,  and  even  distinguished  look- 
ing. He  was  a  man  of  about  thirty,  tall,  sparely  built ;  his 
head  well  set  on  square  shoulders,  his  features  refined  and 
pensive  somewhat,  with  eyes  of  a  clear  light  blue,  and  calm 
and  contemplative  ;  blonde  hair  and  beard  (which  he  wore 
somewhat  long),  and  hands  of  extreme  whiteness  and  ele- 
gance. His  beautifully  shaped  nails,  indeed,  occupied  a 
good  deal  of  his  attention  ;  and  as  he  now  lay  back  in  the 
easy  chair,  he  was  contemplating  them  rather  than  the 
young  man  he  was  addressing. 

"There  are  some  pretty  things  in  the  room,  aren't 
there  ?  "  lie  said,  in  a  tone  of  indifference,  though  he  still 
regarded  his  nails  with  care.  "  They  are  a  bit  too  violent  in 
color  for  me.  I  like  repose  in  a  room.  But  the  capitalist 
will  be  impressed." 

•  "  I  beg  your  pardon  ?  "  said  Fitzgerald  (how  glad  he 
was  about  that  business  of  the  shooting  coat !) 

"Oh!"  he  continued,  in  the  same  indifferent  kind  of 
way,  "I  forgot  I  hadn't  told  you.  There's  a  man  coming 
here  to-night  who  has  too  much  money.  It  isn't  right  for  a 
man  to  have  so  much  money.  I  think  I  can  induce  him  to 
risk  a  little  of  it  in  a  journalistic  venture — I  think  so  ;  I 
don't  know  :  the  thing  looks  to  me  promising  enough.  Only 
I  thought  my  capitalist  would  be  impressed  with  a  little 
grandeur ;  and  so  I  rented  these  rooms  for  a  time.  I  don't 
want  you  to  think  that  all  that  scarlet  and  red  pottery  kind 
of  thing  is  what  I  should  prefer.  I  like  repose  in  a  room, 
as  I  say  ;  something  to  quiet  the  eyes  when  you  are  tired. 
Then  the  other  man  you  will  meet — oh,  I  told  you — Gifford. 
"What  a  comical  old  cock  he  is  !  " 

Fitzgerald  could  scarce  credit  his  cars.     The  editor  of 


]  G  SUA ND ON  BELLS, 

tlic  TAberal  Heview  to  be  spoken  of  in  this  familiar  and  pat- 
ronizing way  ! 

"The  odd  thing  is,"  continued  Hilton  Clarke,  as  ho 
slowly  opened  and  shut  a  pencil-case  with  his  beautiful  long 
nails,  "  that  he  has  been  able  to  get  round  about  him  a  lot 
of  writers  who  are  exactly  like  himself,  or  who  }>retend  to 
be.  They  are  all  fearfully  in  earnest ;  and  dogmatic  about 
trifles ;  making  the  most  profound  discoveries  in  new  poets, 
new  actresses,  new  politicians  ;  always  professing  to  be  ex- 
ceedingly accurate,  and  never  able  to  quote  three  figures 
without  a  blunder.  The  whole  thing  is  comical ;  but  the 
public  believe  them  to  be  so  sincere.  To  me  they  seem  to 
be  continually  wandering  in  a  fog;  and  one  stumbles  against 
a  lamp-post,  and  shrieks  out:  'My  gracious  goodness,  if 
this  isn't  the  greatest  genius  of  a  poet  since  the  time  of 
Byron  ! '  and  another  tumbles  on  to  the  pavement  where  a 
beggar  has  been  drawing  chalk  pictures,  and  there's  a  wild 
cry  from  him  too  :  '  Heaven  preserve  my  poor  senses  if  this 
isn't  Carpaccio  come  back  again  !  How  can  1  express  my 
emotion  but  in  tears! '  I  am  told  Gifford's  last  theory  is 
that  political  disturbances  have  the  same  origin  as  terrestrial 
disturbances;  the  earth  suffering  from  a  surfeit  of  electric- 
it}^,  don't  you  know,  or  some  such  thing,  and  firing  off  one- 
half  of  it  as  an  earthquake  at  Valparaiso,  and  the  other  half 
of  it  at  the  same  moment  as  an  insurrection  among  the 
Poles.  Different  forms  of  gas,  I  suppose.  I  wonder,  when 
a  number  of  the  Ziiberal  Mevieio  is  ])ublished  liere,  what 
portentous  explosion  takes  place  at  the  other  side  of  the 
world.  But  there's  one  good  point  about  old  Gifford  :  he 
is  always  very  frank  in  apologizing  for  his  blunders.  You 
generally  find  him  saying,  *  Last  week  we  inadvertently 
mentioned  Lord  Kussell  as  having  been  principally  con- 
cerned in  the  abolition  of  the  Corn  Lawsi;  of  course  every 
one  must  have  seen  that  we  meant  the  Duke  of  Wellington.' 
And  then  the  following  week,  '  We  last  week,  by  a  slip  of 
the  pen,  attributed  the  establishment  of  Free  Trade  to  the 
Duke  of  Wellington  ;  every  one  must  have  seen  that  we 
meant  Sir  Robert  Peel.'  I  only  hope  he'll  take  it  into  his 
head  to  discover  a  mare's  nest  in  this  new  weekly  I  am 
thinking  of,  and  give  us  a  flaming  article  about  it;  it's  all 
a  toss-up  whether  he  does  or  not." 

Fitzgerald  heard  all  this  with  dismay,  and  even  with  a 
trifle  of  pain.  He  was  a  born  hero-worshipper  ;  and  for 
this  unknown  editor,  whose  opinions  he  had  reverenced  for 


SHAND  ON  BE  LLS.  \  7 

many  a  year,  he  had  a  very  high  regard  indeed.  It  was  al- 
most shocking  to  hear  him  spoken  of  as  a  comical  person. 
But  the  truth  was  that  Fitzgerakl  did  not  understand  tliat 
there  was  a  spice  of  revenge  in  this  tirade  uttered  so  negli- 
gently. Only  that  morning  it  had  happened  that  a  good- 
natured  friend  had  repeated  to  Mr.  Hilton  Clarke  something 
that  had  been  said  of  him  by  Mr.  Gifford.  The  good-na- 
tured friend  did  not  in  the  least  mean  to  make  mischief;  it 
was  only  a  little  joke  ;  and  indeed  there  was  nothing  very 
terrible  in  what  Mr.  Gifford  had  said.  "  Clarke  ?  Hilton 
Clarke,  do  you  mean  ?  Oh,  he  is  the  sort  of  man  who  writes 
triolets,  parts  his  hair  down  the  middle,  and  belongs  to  the 
Savile  Club."  Now  there  is  no  one  of  these  things  abso- 
lutely criminal ;  in  fact,  a  man  might  commit  them  all  and 
still  be  recognized  as  an  honest  British  citizen.  Only  Mr. 
Hilton  Clarke  did  not  like  to  be  ticketed  and  passed  on  in 
that  way;  and  so  he  took  his  earliest  opportunity  of  re- 
venge. 

He  looked  at  his  watch. 

"  Five  minutes  past  eight,"  he  said.  "  Twenty  minutes 
late  already.  I  never  wait  more  than  a  quarter  of  an  hour 
for  anybody  ;  so  we  will  have  dinner.  Fiammetta  !  Hola ! 
— Fiammetta  !  " 

There  was  no  answer,  so  he  touched  a  little  silver-han- 
dled bell  near  him  ;  and  the  tall  dark-eyed  woman — s'he 
seemed  to  have  been  very  beautiful  at  one  time,  Fitzgerald 
thought,  as  he  now  liad  a  better  look  at  her — made  her  a2> 
pearance. 

"  L'on  n'arrive  pas ;  faites  servir." 

"  Bien,  m'sieur." 

But  at  the  same  moment  there  was  a  noise  outside  in  the 
passage,  and  very  shortly  afterward  Fiammetta  ushered  in 
two  gentlemen.  The  first,  who  was  rubbing  his  hands,  and 
looking  very  cheerful,  was  a  jjortly,  rubicund,  blonde  per- 
son, whose  short  yellow  mustache  and  whiskers  looked  al- 
most white  as  contrasted  with  his  round,  red,  shining  face ; 
he  wore  one  blazing  diamond  as  a  stud  ;  and  his  boots  shone 
almost  as  brilliantly  as  the  diamond  did.  Him  Fitzgerald 
instantly  dismissed  as  of  no  account,  and  concentrated  his 
eager  interest  on  the  next  comer,  who  was  certainly  of  more 
striking  appearance.  He  was  a  man  of  middle  height,  of 
powerful  build ;  his  face  sallow;  his  hair  jet-black  and  un- 
kempt ;  his  features  strong,  and  yet  keen  and  intellectual ; 
his  eyes  so  very  clear,  in  the  midst  of  a  dark  face,  that  they 


18  SHANDON  BELLS. 

resembled  the  eyes  of  a  lion,  The  general  impression  you 
would  have  gathered  from  his  look  was  that  he  was  an  in- 
tellectually powerful  man,  but  unduly  aggressive ;  though 
this  impression  was  modified  by  his  voice,  which  was  pleas 
ant,  and  by  his  laugh,  which  was  delightful. 

After  the  usual  apologies  and  introductions,  and  when 
Hilton  Clarke  had  expressed  his  regret  that  these  two 
guests  should  have  taken  the  trouble  to  come  in  evening 
dress  (if  Kitty  had  only  seen  how  nic6ly  that  was  done  ! 
they  sat  down  to  the  little  square  table  ;  and  Fiammetta, 
having  handed  round  a  dish  containing  caviare,  olives 
Btuffed  with  sardines,  and  similar  condiments,  offered  to 
each  of  the  guests  his  choice  of  liqueurs.  As  Fitzgerald  had 
never  heard  any  of  the  names  before — and  as  he  was  far 
more  interested  in  his  companions  than  in  the  ministra- 
tions of  the  soft-eyed  and  velvet-footed  Fiametta — he 
absently  answered,  "  Yes,  if  you  please,"  and  did  not  even 
look  at  the  reddish-colored  fluid  that  was  poured  into  his 
glass.  A  minute  afterward  he  was  brought  to  his  senses. 
Having  observed  the  results  of  certain  Coursing  Club  din- 
ners at  Inisheen,  he  had  long  «igo  vowed  to  himself  never 
to  touch  spirits  of  any  kind ;  and  he  had  faithfully  kept  his 
vow.  But  he  never  imagined  that  this  reddish  fluid  could 
be  anything  else  than  wine,  and  not  particularly  liking  the 
oily  taste  of  the  caviare,  he  thought  he  would  remove  it  by 
drinking  this  glass.  The  next  moment  he  was  convinced 
that  the  roof  of  his  head  was  off,  and  his  throat  on  fire.  Pie 
hastily  gulped  down  some  water ;  fortunately  he  did  not 
choke;  no  one  noticed  ;  and  by  and  by,  somewhat  panting, 
and  very  red  in  the  face,  he  was  enabled  to  resume  his  atti- 
tude of  respectful  and  eager  attention. 

The  conversation  was  entirely  confined  to  Hilton  Clarke 
and  Mr.  Gifford  ;  Mr.  Scobel,  the  capitalist,  being  a  most 
valiant  trencher-man,  minded  his  own  business.  And  in- 
deed for  some  time  the  remarks  on  affairs  of  the  day  and 
on  the  doings  of  public  men  were  somewhat  obvious  and 
commonplace,  if  one  may  dare  to  say  so  ;  although  here 
and  tliere  occurred  a  suggestion  that  these  two  men  had 
very  different  ways  of  looking  at  things.  However,  all  the 
assertion  was  on  the  side  of  Mr.  Gifford,  whenever  any  dis- 
putable subject  was  approached.  His  host  did  not  care  to 
contradict.  He  would  rather  make  some  little  facetious 
remark,  or  shrug  his  shoulders.  Gifford's  attitude  was  one 
of  conviction   and  insistence;  Clarke's  might   have   been 


SHANDON  BELLS.  19 

summed  up  in  the  word  "  connu."  When  the  leonine  gen- 
tleman was  vehemently  declaring  that  the  laureate's  last 
volume,  whicli  had  been  published  that  very  week,  was  a 
masterpiece  ;  that  never  before  had  he  written  anything  so 
consistently  dramatic  in  its  conception,  so  musical  in  its 
lyrics,  so  pathetic  in  its  tragedy  :  and  that  in  consequence 
life  seemed  to  have  had  something  added  to  it  within  these 
last  few  days,  his  host  remarked — while  carefully  looking 
for  bones  in  the  red  mullet — "  Oh  yes,  it  is  a  pleasant  sort 
of  poem." 

But  by  dire  mishap,  they  blundered  into  the  American 
civil  war,  which  was  then  a  tojnc  of  more  recent  interest 
than  it  is  now.  At  first  the  remarks  were  only  casual,  and 
perhaps  also  not  profoundly  novel. 

"  At  all  events,"  said  Hilton  Clarke  at  last,  "  there  is  one 
point  on  which  everybody  is  agreed — that  the  Southerners 
have  the  advantage  of  being  gentlemen." 

"  The  gentlemen  of  the  Salisbury  stockade — the  gentle- 
men of  Andersonville ! "  retorted  his  opponent,  with  a  flash 
m  the  deep-set  gray  eyes. 

"  And  they  fought  gallantly  too,  until  they  were  beaten 
back  by  the  undisciplined  crowds  that  poured  down  on 
them — flung  at  them,  indeed,  by  reckless  generals  who 
knew  no  more  of  the  art  of  war  than  they  did  of  common 
humanity.  Of  course,  if  you  have  every  advantage  of  men 
and  money  and  war  material — " 

But  this  was  like  the  letting  in  of  waters.  Even  Mr. 
Scobell  looked  up.  For  the  Liberal  Mevieio  had  been  a 
warm  partisan  of  the  North  during  the  war ;  and  Mr.  Gif- 
ford  had  written  nearly  all  of  the  war  articles  himself,  so 
that  his  information,  whether  precisely  accurate  or  not,  was 
of  mighty  volume ;  and  down  it  came  on  tlie  head  of  his 
opponent  like  a  cataract.  All  the  campaigns  had  to  be 
fought  over  again  :  now  they  were  investing  Vicksburg  ; 
now  they  were  marching  through  Georgia;  now  they  were 
at  Five  Forks.  Hilton  Clarke  appeared  to  have  gone  away 
somewhere.  He  was  scarcely  heard  amid  all  this  thunder. 
At  times,  it  is  true,  he  would  utter  some  scornful  taunt,  not 
levelled  at  the  North  only,  but  at  North  and  South  com- 
bined ;  for  indeed  he  might  well  be  confused  by  all  the  gun- 
powder smoke  and  noise.  But  even  here  he  was  not  safe  ; 
for  having  incidentally  remarked  that  it  was  not  worth  dis- 
puting about,  "  for,  after  all,"  he  said,  "  there  are  only  two 
kinds  of  Americans,  plain  and  colored,  and  for  my  part  T 


20  SHANDON  BELLS. 

prefer  the  colored  variety,"  he  was  immediately  pursued  oy 
his  relentless  enemy,  who  upbraided  him  for  making  use  of 
tliose  idle  little  quips  and  taunts  that  made  such  mischief 
between  countries.  The  flippant  article  was  very  easy  to 
write  ;  and  the  writer  pocketed  liis  three  guineas  ;  and  then 
it  went  out  and  was  quoted  all  over  America  as  an  expres- 
sion of  English  jealousy.  He  undertook  to  say  that  Clarke 
had  never  been  in  America ;  he  undertook  to  say  that  he 
had  never  known  twenty  Americans  in  the  whole  course  of 
his  life 

Now  there  is  no  saying  how  far  this  discussion  might 
have  gone,  or  how  fierce  it  might  have  become ;  but  Mr. 
Scobell  made  a  remark.  And  when  a  capitalist  speaks, 
literary  persons  are  silent. 

"I  was  once  in  America,"  he  said. 

There  was  a  pause. 

"  Oh,  indeed,"  said  Mr.  Gifford,  regarding  him  with  in- 
terest. 

"  Yes  ? "  said  his  host,  with  a  pleasant  and  inquiring 
smile. 

But  it  appeared  that  that  was  all.  He  had  contributed 
his  share  to  the  conversation ;  and  accordingly  he  returned 
to  liis  plate.  Moreover,  what  he  had  contributed  was  val- 
uable ;  it  was  actual  fact,  which  there  was  no  gainsaying. 

But  whatever  interest  this  dispute  may  have  had  for 
young  Fitzgerald  as  indicative  of  tlie  characters  of  the  dis- 
putants (that  is  to  say,  supposing  him  to  have  had  the  au- 
dacity to  attempt  to  take  the  measure  of  two  such  distin- 
guished men),,  what  followed  turned  out  to  have  a  far  more 
immediate  and  personal  importance  for  him.  The  cham- 
pagne, whicli  had  been  rather  long  in  coming,  had  now 
been  passed  round  twice  by  the  scft-footed  Fiammetta  ;  a 
mellower  atmosphei-e  pervaded  the  room  ;  Mr.  Gifford  was 
laughing  pleasantly  at  a  little  joke  of  his  host's ;  and  the 
round,  clear,  staring  eyes  of  the  capitalist — whose  face,  by 
the  way,  had  grown  even  a  little  redder,  so  that  the  short 
yellow-white  whiskers  and  mustache  and  eyebrows  looked 
as  if  they  wei*e  afire — beamed  in  the  most  benign  manner 
on  all  and  sundry.  This  was  the  time  chosen  by  Mr.  Hil- 
ton Clarke  to  unfold  the  journalistic  scheme  which  had  been 
the/brts  ei  ango  of  this  little  dinner  party. 

"  You  see,  I  want  your  advice,  Gifford,"  he  said,  "  and 
Mr.  Scobell  won't  mind  my  repeating  some  details  that  he 
and  I  have  gone   over   together.     What  I  propose  is   a 


SHANDON  BELLS,  21 

sliilling  weekly  —  addressed  to  the  wealthier  classes,  of 
course,  but  rather  with  a  view  to  country  houses.  How- 
ever, I  should  publish  at  three  o'clock  on  Saturday,  so  tliat 
London  people  could  have  the  magazine  by  post,  while  the 
country  people  would  get  it  in  their  Sunday  morning  bag. 
There  might  be  a  summary  of  Renter's  telegrams  up  to  the 
latest  hour  on  Saturday ;  otherwise,  no  news ;  and  above 
all,  no  politics.  The  prominence  given  to  politics  in  Eng- 
lish newspapers  is  founded  on  a  delusion — Wait  a  minute, 
Gifford  ;  let  me  have  my  scheme  out.  I  say  that  the  space 
given  to  politics  in  the  newspapers  is  out  of  all  proportion 
to  the  interest  taken  in  politics  by  any  ordinary  English 
household.  Outside  political  circles — I  mean  apart  from 
those  who  are  actually  concerned  in  politics  or  in  writing 
about  them — take  any  household  you  like,  and  for  one  who 
is  deeply  interested  in  politics,  you  will  find  four  who  don't 
care  a  brass  farthing  about  them.  Well,  I  propose  to  ad- 
dress the  four.  But  even  the  fifth,  mind  you,  though  ho 
may  imagine  himself  responsible  for  the  empire,  miglit 
have  anxious  thoughts  as  to  whetlier  he  should  take  such 
and  such  a  deer  forest  in  Scotland  for  the  autumn,  or 
whether  he  should  hire  a  steam-yacht  and  take  his  family 
for  a  cruise  about  the  Channel  Islands,  or  whether,  suppos- 
ing he  took  such  and  such  a  country  house  from  October 
till  Christmas,  there  would  be  as  many  pheasants  this  year 
as  figured  in  last  year's  bag,  and  so  on  ;  and  he  might  be 
very  glad,  on  the  Sunday  morning,  to  sit  down  Avith  his 
after-breakfast  cigar  in  the  veranda,  you  know,  and  study 
this  honest  shilling  counsellor " 

''  Oh,'*  said  Gifford,  "  that  kind  of  thing.  But  there  is 
the  Field.     There  is  Land  and  Water — " 

"  Pardon  me,  this  will  be  quite  different,"  said  Hilton 
Clarke,  composedly.  "  I  propose  to  have  a  series  of 
agents  —  yachting  men,  sportsmen,  anglers,  and  all  the 
rest  of  it — who  will  at  their  leisure  send  in  faithful  and 
unadorned  descriptions  of  anything  they  find  that  is  worth 
having ;  so  that  Paterfamilias,  instead  of  reading  advertise- 
ments that  he  can't  believe,  will  have  a  lot  of  things  offered 
to  him — a  brace  of  perfectly  disciplined  setters,  a  thorough- 
bred hunter,  half  a  mile  of  salmon  fishing  in  Ireland,  a 
shooting-box  in  the  Highlands,  anything,  in  short,  connected 
with  those  delightful  dreams  of  holidays  that  fill  up  the 
idle  time  on  Sundays  with  so  many  folk;  and  he  will  know 
that  he  can  safely  depend  on  these  being  as  they  are  de- 


22  SHANDON  BELLS. 

Bcribed.  In  fact,  I  don't  know  that  we  might  not  have  a 
number  of  supernumeraiy  agents,  so  that  a  man,  writing  to 
the  office,  could  have  one  of  these  sent  on  commission,  and 
so  make  sure,  for  example,  that  the  fine  bag  he  had  Jieard 
of  as  having  been  made  last  year  on  a  particular  shooting 
did  not  mean  that  the  outgoing  tenant  had  cleared  every 
head  of  game  off  the  place.  The  difficulty  will  be  to  get 
perfectly  trustworthy  agents.  We  shall  be  above  suspic- 
ion, for  we  shall  take  no  fees,  no  commissions.  The  iwktw 
must  be  well  paid — " 

"  Right,"  said  Scobell,  and  there  was  instant  attention. 
But  that  was  all.  He  looked  from  one  to  the  other  in  si- 
lence ;  he  had  said  all  he  had  thought  necessary  to  say. 

*'  My  dear  Gifford,  not  an  ortolan  ? "  Hilton  Clarke 
observed,  with  calm  surprise.  *'  Fitzgerald,  pass  the  Bur- 
gundy— gently,  man  !  "  he  added,  in  a  tone  of  displeasure, 
for  Fitzgerald  had  gripped  the  basket  with  his  muscular 
fingers  as  if  it  were  the  stock  of  a  breech  loader.  "  And  for 
this  section,"  he  continued,  "  of  course  what  is  wanted  is  a 
good  sub-editor,  who' will  put  the  reports  into  decent  Eng- 
lish, and  who  won't  let  the  printers  make  a  fool  of  us.  Be- 
sides, he  must  know  something  of  out-of-door  sports — he 
must  know  a  good  deal  more  than  Zdo — or  we  shall  be 
made  ridiculous.  I  think  it  was  rather  lucky,  then,  that  I 
ran  against  my  friend  Fitzgerald  here,  for  if  you  can  per- 
suade him,  Mr.  Scobell,  to  take  the  place,  he  is  the  very 
man  for  it.  He  has  burned  powder  in  those  desolate  Irish 
bogs,  and  I  know  he  can  busk  a  fly.  And  then,  you  see, 
Fitzgerald,  it  needn't  take  up  anything  like  the  whole  of 
your  time.  You  might  be  going  on  with  more  purely  liter- 
ary work  quite  independently  of  it.  What  do  you  say  ? — 
or  would  you  rather  consider?" 

"  Oh,  I  should  be  very  glad,"  stammered  Fitzgerald, 
with  his  face  about  as  red  as  Mr.  Scobell's.  "  It  is  very 
kind  of  you.  I — I  don't  know  whether  I  could  do  tlie 
work,  but  I  should  try  my  best,  anyway — " 

"  Oh,  that's  all  right,"  said  Hilton*  Clarke,  coolly.  "  I 
dare  say  you  know  more  about  it  than  I  do.  As  to  teims, 
perhaps  this  isn't  the  place  to  discuss  these  details — " 

But  liere  Mr.  Scobell  broke  in.  Here  he  had  a  right  to 
speak,  and  here  he  was  on  solid  ground. 

"  I  leave  that  in  your  hands,  Clarke.  I  leave  that  to 
you  entirely.  I  want  the  paper  well  done.  I  want  it  to  be 
a  gentlemanly  paper.     I  don't  want  to  go  into  my  club  and 


SHANDON  BELLS.  23 

have  a  man  come  up  to  me  and  say,  '  Scobell,  what  d d 

Radical  trash  that  is  in  your  paper  !     I  wonder  you'd  own 

a  d d  Radical  paper  ! '     I  want  it  to  be   a  gentlemanly 

paper,  and  I  am  willing:  to  pay  for  it.  I  want  it  to  be  well 
printed,  on  good  paper ;  I  want  it  to  be  a  gentlemanly  look- 
ing paper ;  I  don't  want,  when  I  go  into  sassiety,  to  have 

people  speaking  of  me  as  the  owner  of  a  d d  Radical 

print." 

"Oh,  of  course  not— of  course  not,"  said  Hilton  Clarke, 
somewhat  hastily.  "  There  will  be  no  polities.  But  we 
must  have  a  name.  I  have  bothered  my  head  for  the  last 
fortnight  about  it.  You  see,  I  must  have  it  known  that  the 
paper  is  for  Sunday  morning  or  for  Sunday ;  but  every- 
thing I  have  tried  suggests  the  Sunday  at  Iloine  or  the 
Day  of  Mest^  or  something  like  that.  I  thought  of  the 
Sunday  Morning  Cigar ;  but  tlien  everybody  doesn't 
smoke.  lUXiO,  After-Breakfast  Cigar;  a  Sunday  Paper ; 
that  has  the  same  objection.  The  Country  Gentleman' 8 
Guide;  that  is  too  long;  besides,  I  want  to  appeal  to  the 
whole  household,  and  to  town  households  also.  Well,  we 
must  consider  that  by  and  by." 

" If  I  were  you,  I  would  call  it  JesJmrun"  said  Mr. 
Gifford.  "  It  seems  to  me  you  are  addressing  those  who 
have  waxed  fat,  and  taking  account  only  of  the  most  ma- 
terial and  vulgar  luxuries.  There  is  not  a  word  oi  any 
mtellectual  requirements " 

"  Oh,  I  beg  your  pardon,"  his  host  said.  "  I  have  only 
described  one  section  to  you.  I  mean  to  take  the  literary 
section  under  my  own  care.  Of  course  we  shall  have  essays ; 
touching  here  and  there  on  sport,  perhaps,  but  also  meant 
to  have  an  interest  for  the  ladies  in  the  house.  A  short 
story  now  and  again,  if  possible ;  but  it  is  difficult  to  get 
them  good  ;  it  might  be  better  to  have  some  French  novel 
—such  as  Monsieur  De  Gam.ors — translated,  and  use  that 
as  a  serial.  An  occasional  bit  of  verse,  too,  or  a  ballade^ 
touching  affairs  of  the  day.  Professor  Jewel  has  offered 
me  a  series  of  translations  from  Horace  partly  adapted  to 
modern  affairs ;  but  I  am  afraid  that  has  been  done  too 
often." 

"Don*t  touch  them,"  said  Gifford,  with  decision. 
"  Horace  is  as  fatal  to  translators  as  Heine.  Both  are  quite 
unmanageable.  Look  how  Milton  made  a  fool  of  himself 
with  the  fifth  Ode !  " 


24  SHANDON  DELIAS, 

"  What  ?  "  said  Mr.  Scobell,  in  a  loud  voice ;  and  even 
Fitzgerald  stared. 

*'  Come,  you  must  not  speak  slightingly  of  the  equator," 
Hilton  Clarke  said,  with  a  laugh. 

"  Oh,  but  I  do  say  it  is  the  very  worst  translation  ever 
made  from  Horace,  or  from  anybody  else,"  Mr.  Gifford  in- 
sisted. "  It  is  not  a  question  of  degree.  I  say  it  is  the 
very  worst  translation  ever  made  from  anything;  for  it 
starts  with  the  primary  defect  of  being  absolutely  unintelli- 
gible. Do  you  mean  to  tell  me  that  anybody  unacquainted 
with  the  original  could  make  the  slightest  sense  out  of  it — 

*  Who  now  enjoys  thee  credulous,  all  gold  ; 
Wlio  always  vacant,  always  amiable, 
Hopes  tliee,  of  fluttering  gales 
Unmindful  ! " 

Gracious  heavens  !     And  then  the  measure — 

"  Who  now  enjoys  thee  credulous,  all  goT  1 

I  should  like  to  see  a  schoolboy  try  to  make  that  scan,  to 
say  nothing  of  '  credulous,  all  gold,'  certainly  leaving  in  the 
mind  the  impression  that  if  anybody  is  all  gold,  it  is  not 
Pyrrha  at  all,  but  tlie  credulous  youth.  Kow  the  gentleman 
who  translated  Gretchen's  song  thus, — 

*  My  peace  is  gone, 
My  heart  is  sore, 
I  find  him  never 
And  nevermore,' 

erred  in  the  other  direction,  for  he  wanted  to  make  it  quite 
clear  what  poor  Gretchen  was  sorrowing  about  and  only 
took  a  liberty  with  a  little  sie'' 

"  But  Avhat  do  you  think  of  tliis  project  now,  Gifford  ?  " 
Baid  Hilton  Clarke,  as  he  handed  round  cigars,  coffee  being 
on  the  table, 

Mr.  Gifford  took  a  cigar,  lay  back  in  his  chair,  and  passed 
his  hand  through  the  thick  masses  of  his  raven-black  liair. 

"Not  much,"  said  he-,  firmly.  "You  are  combining  op- 
posed tastes.  Sportsmen  are  not  as  a  rule  fond  of  intel- 
lectual pursuits.  Where  you  find  the  library  in  a  country- 
house  turned  into  a  gun-room,  there  will  be  more  newly 
made  cartridges  than  newly  published  books  about.  A 
combination  of  Colonel  Hawker  and  Joseph  Addison " 


SHANDON  BELLS,  25 

"  But,  my  dear  fellow,  you  don't  seem  to  sec  that  I  am 
addressing  different  persons.  I  am  addressing  tlie  whole 
household — the  father,  who  wants  to  invite  Lord  Somebody 
or  other  to  shoot  with  him  over  a  thoroughly  well  preserved 
moor  in  Scotland ;  the  eldest  son,  who  hunts  ;  the  younger 
son,  who  wants  to  cut  a  dash  at  Cowes  ;  the  mamma,  who 
has  her  eye  on  several  parties  she  could  make  up  if  only 
she  had  a  pleasant  country  house  for  the  winter  ;  the  young 
ladies,  who  would  be  curious  about  a  translated  French 
novsl,  as  they  are  forbidden  to  read  such  things  in  the  origi- 
nal.    You  see  I  am  appealing  to  the  whole  houseliold " 

"  Call  it  the  Household  Magazine^  then,"  said  Gifford, 
with  a  laugh. 

"  I  will.  Thanks,"  said  Hilton  Clarke,  calmly,  as  he 
took  out  a  beautifully  bound  little  note-book.  "  At  least 
that  is  better  than  anything  I  have  thought  of  as  yet." 

And  so  Master  Willie  was  installed  as  the  sub-editor  of 
a  shilling  weekly  magazine.  But  that  was  not  the  only 
event  of  the  evening,  so  far  as  concerned  himself.  After 
talking  about  many  things,  until  the  gorgeous  colors  of  the 
chamber  were  pretty  well  subdued  by  a  haze  of  pale  blue 
tobacco  smoke,  they  chanced  lo  touch  on  a  novel  which  had 
just  then  been  published  by  a  gentleman  holding  a  subordi- 
nate place  in  her  Majesty's  government.  Rather,  it  had 
been  published  some  weeks  before,  anonymously,  and  no 
notice  had  been  taken  of  it;  now,  liowever,  a  second  edi- 
tion was  announced,  with  the  name  of  the  Right  Honorable 
Spencer  Tollemache,  M.P.,  on  the  title-page.  Then  editors 
had  to  begin  and  overhaul  the  piles  of  books  put  aside  as 
adjudged  not  worth  a  review,  and  so  Daphne's  Shadow 
came  to  the  front  again. 

'-'•  Curious  idea  for  Spencer  Tollemache  to  write  a  novel," 
said  Hilton  Clarke.  "  His  History  of  the  '32  Beform  Bill 
was  very  well  spoken  of." 

"Ah;  light  literature — relaxation  —  relaxation,"  said 
Mr.  Scobell,  smiling  blandly — "  relaxation  from  the  cares 
of  state." 

Gifford  darted  an  almost  angry  glance  at  him. 

"  Light  literature  ? "  he  said,  somewhat  too  scornfully. 
*'  I  suppose  you  mean  light  literature  as  distinguished  from 
the  heavy  literature  that  sinks?  My  dear  Mr.  Scobell, 
wliere  are  the  politicians  of  the  time  of  Homer?  Where 
arc  the  learned  treatises  they  wrote  ?  It  seems  to  me  that 
light  literature — imaginative  literature — pure  story- telling 


26  *         S HA NDON  BELLS. 

• — absc4ute  fiction — is  the  only  really  permanent  thing  of 
man's  invention  in  the  world.  The  /Siege  of  Troy^  the 
Wctmlermys  of  l/lysses,  the  Arabian  Nights^  Shakspeare's 
])lays,  Don  Quixote^  Robinson  Owsoe,  the  Vicar  of  Wa/ce^ 
-field — more  than  that,  the  children's  fairy  tales  that  have 
an  antiquity  beyond  anything  that  can  be  guessed  at — all 
pure  fiction — these  are  the  things  that  remain ;  these  are 
the  things  that  the  whole  world  treasures  ;  while  your  heavy 
literature  sinks  into  the  bog.'* 

He  was  quite  as  vehement  about  this  chance  topic  as  ho 
had  been  about  the  American  war.. 

"  You  may  call  them  will-o'-the-wisps,  if  you  like  ;  they 
are  not  to  be  cauglit  and  cooked  ;  but  they  remain  to  de- 
light the  curiosity  and  imagination  of  men,  flickering  and 
beautiful ;  while  far  more  useful  works — solid  and  substan- 
tial works — have  gone  down  into  the  morass,  and  the  cen- 
turies have  closed  over  them.  People  see  too  much  of  the 
meaner  side  of  what  is  around  them ;  they  wish  to  hear  of 
nobler  things  ;  they  like  a  touch  of  rose-color,  of  the  won- 
derful, the  supernatural,  added  to  the  common  things  of 
life.  If  a  child  had  never  been  told  about  fairies,  it  would 
invent  fairies.  And  you  talk  of  Spencer  ToUemache  as 
turning  to  this  kind  of  work  for  relaxation  ?  Perhaps  he 
may.  I  never  read  his  History  of  the  Reform  Bill ;  but 
if  he  thinks  it  easier  to  create  imaginary  human  beings,  and 
give  them  definite  and  natural  form,  and  make  them  the 
brothers  and  sisters  and  intimate  friends  of  the  people  who 
are  actually  alive  in  the  world — if  he  thinks  it  is  easier  to 
do  that  than  to  go  to  Parliamentary  reports  and  Blue-books 
and  get  together  a  useful  compilation' of  easily  ascertained 
facts,  then  perhaps  he  may  find  himself  mistaken.  Per- 
haps he  has  already  found  himself  mistaken.  By  Jove  !  it's 
eleven  o'clock.'* 

Good  luck  seemed  to  pursue  Fitzgerald  this  evening. 
"When  Mr.  Scobell  drove  away  in  his  carriage,  the  remain- 
ing two  guests  left  together  on  foot ;  and  as  they  walked 
along  Piccadilly,  Mr.  Gifford  must  needs  continue  talking 
about  the  Under-Secretary's  novel  and  the  capitalist's 
chance  remark.  You  may  imagine  that  young  Fitzgerald 
was  in  no  hurry  to  interrupt  him.  To  be  walking  with  Mr. 
Gifford  was  a  sufficient  honor ;  to  listen  to  this  vehement, 
combative,  and  occasionally  brilliant  and  incisive  talk  was 
something  that  the  provincial  sub-editor  had  never  dared 
to  hope  for  in   this  world.     They  walked  all  the   way  to 


SHANDON  BELLS.  t  27 

Sloane  Street  (Master  Willie  would  have  kept  on  to  Jeru^ 
salem,  had  not  his  companion  stopped),  when  Mr.  Gifford 
said  to  him  : — 

"You  live  in  the  Fulham  Road,  you  said?  My  rooms 
are  close  by  here.  I  have  have  been  thinking  now  that  if 
you  didn't  mind  trying  your  hand  at  a  review  of  that  novel 
I  was  speaking  of,  you  might  let  me  have  it  by  Thursday 
night.  Hilton  Clarke  showed  me  some  things  of  yours. 
You  are  on  the  right  road  ;  don't  fall  in  with  that  affected 
indifferentism ;  you'll  find  too  much  of  it  in  London.  JRe- 
member  Bishop  Blougram  : — 

*  What  can  I  gain  on  the  denying  side  ? 
Ice  makes  no  conflagration.' 

Your  writing  isn't  quite  clean  enough  yet.  You  go  round- 
about. You  don't  hit  the  nail  sharp  and  have  done.  No 
matter;  if  you  like  to  try  your  hand,  you  may  have  the 
book." 

"But,"  said  Fitzgerald,  almost  deprived  of  breath, 
"  but  you  don't  mean  for  the  Liberal  Meoiew?  " 

"Of  course  I  do." 

Now  if  at  this  moment  the  pavement  at  the  corner  of 
Sloane  Street  had  opened,  and  if  Master  Willie  had  beheld 
there  a  subterranean  procession  of  Don  Ficrna  and  all  his 
array  of  elves — passing  along  in  blue  fire  through  grottoes 
of  feldspar  gemmed  with  rubies  and  diamonds — he  could 
not  have  been  more  astounded.  That  he  should  be  asked 
to  write  for  the  JOiberal  Itemew ;  and  to  write  about  a 
book,  too,  that  Avas  at  the  moment  occupying  so  much  of 
the  attention  of  the  public !  He  could  scarcely  find  words 
to  express  his  sense  of  his  companion's  great  kindness,  and 
of  his  own  fears  about  his  being  unable  to  undertake  such 
a  task. 

"  But  I  don't  say  I  will  use  the  article,  mind,"  said  Mr. 
Gifford,  good-naturedly.  "  I  will  give  you  tlie  chance,  if 
you  will  take  the  risk.  It  may  be  some  training  for  you, 
in  any  case.  If  you  call  or  send  to  the  ofiice  to-morrow, 
you  will  find  the  book  waiting  for  you.  Good-night.  Glad 
to  have  met  you. 

Was  Kitty  awake  yet  ?  Could  she  hear  the  news  ? 
Could  she  tell  how  high  his  heart  was  beating? — poor  Kitiy, 
who  was  so  far  away  at  Inisheen  ! 


28  SIIANDON  BELLS. 


CHAPTER  III. 

A    FIRST    CAST. 

FiTZGEKALD  did  iiot  get  to  sleep  soon  that  night.  As 
he  walked  rapidly  away  down  the  Fulham  Road,  it  seemed 
to  him  as  if  five-and-thirty  different  ways  of  beginning  this 
fateful  review  were  pressing  in  on  his  mind,  and  that  he 
had  lost  all  power  to  decide  which  was  preferable.  If 
he  could  have  seen  but  the  first  page  of  the  novel,  it  might 
liave  given  him  some  clue,  perhaps.  But  here  he  was 
eagerly  and  anxiously  sketching  out  plans  for  reviewing  a 
book  of  the  contents  of  which  he  was  wholly  ignorant;  and 
it  appeared  to  him  as  if  his  brain  had  got  the  better  of  him 
altogether,  and  was  running  ahead  in  this  aimless,  dis- 
tracted, and  fruitless  fashion  quite  independently  of  his 
control. 

At  length  he  reached  a  dimly  lit  little  courtyard  in  the 
Fulham  Road,  on  one  side  of  which  stood  a  plain  two- 
storied  building.  The  ground-fioor  consisted  of  a  large 
studio  ;  the  upper  floor  served  as  a  bedroom,  and  that 
Fitzgerald  had  secured  as  his  lodging.  He  went  carefully 
up  the  outside  stair,  unlocked  the  door,  lit  a  match  and 
then  a  lamp,  and  here  he  was  in  the  middle  of  a  fairly  large 
low  roofed  apartment,  somewhat  scantily  furnished,  but 
quite  sufficiently  so  for  all  his  wants.  The  floor  was  for 
tiie  most  part  bare ;  and  here  and  there  was  a  bit  of  faded 
Turkey  carpet  or  a  withered  old  rug  which  had  most  likely 
been  flung  out  from  the  studio  below  as  being  even  too 
worn  and  decayed  for  painting  purposes. 

It  was  a  fine  place  to  think  in,  for  there  were  few  temp- 
tations in  the  way  of  luxury  about ;  and  he  had  plenty  to 
think  of:  the  projected  magazine;  Kitty's  surprise  on 
hearing  the  good  news  ;  the  wonderful  evening  he  had  just 
spent,  and  the  strange  contrast  between  the  two  great 
men  ;  nay,  the  precise  conversation  of  which  he  could  remem- 
ber every  word :  all  these  things  were  enough  to  occupy 
him  ;  but  nearer  than  any  of  them  came  this  pressing  mat- 
ter of  the  review.     What  a  chance  it  was  !     And  they  said 


S HAND  ON  BELLS.  29 

that  London  was  an  inifriendly  city!  Now  it  could  not  l>e 
any  interest  in  salmon  iiies  that  had  led  Mr.  Gifford  to 
place  this  opportunity  before  one  who  was  quite  un- 
known to  him.  True,  Mr.  Gifford  had  seen  certain  ex- 
cerpts from  the  Cork  Chronicle  which  Mr.  Hilton  Clarke 
had  asked  to  be  intrusted  with.  (N.B — What  would  Kitty 
eay  to  this?  Was  not  that  the  act  of  a  friend?)  But 
Fitzgerald  had  a  great  distrust  of  himself;  he  had  not  re- 
garded these  things  as  of  much  value ;  and  certainly  he 
had  never  thought  they  would  entitle  him  to  have  the 
chance  given  him  of  contributing  to  the  Liberal  Jlevieio. 

At  this  moment  all  hf&  thinking  went  clean  out  of  his 
head;  for  there  was  a  tremendous  noise  below — the  noise 
of  a  powerful,  raucous  bass  voice  that  bellowed,  or  rather 
that  rattled  with  the  rattle  of  small  drums, — 

Should  auld  acquaintance  be  forrrrr-got — " 

"  There's  that  brute  begun  again,"  said  Fitzgerald  to 
himself  with  a  groan. 

But  the  brute,  whevcr  lie  was,  seemed  to  have  no  in- 
tention of  continuing  the  song.  There  was  a  dead  silence, 
in  the  course  of  which  Fitzgerald  speedily  recovered  his 
thoughts  again. 

And  first  of  all  he  was  determined  that,  if  the  book 
gave  him  any  fair  excuse,  the  review  should  be  a  friendly 
and  good-natured  one.  For  he  had  carefully  noted  cer- 
tain remarks  (what  had  he  not  carefully  noted  during  the 
momentous  evening  ?)  that  Mr.  Gifford  had  addressed  to 
Hilton  Clarke  with  regard  to  the  projected  magazine. 

*'  For  one  thing,  my  friend,"  Mr.  Gifford  had  said  bend- 
ing his  keen  eyes  on  the  tall  blonde-bearded  gentleman 
opposite  him,  "  I  would  advise  you  in  going  over  to  this 
new  thing,  to  leave  behind  you  the  affected  pessimism  of 
the  Weeklj/  Gazetted  (This  was  a  weekly  journal  to 
which  Mr.  Hilton  Clarke  was  understood  to  contribute.) 
^'  That  continual  belittling  of  things,  that  continual  discon- 
tent with  everything  that  turns  up  in  politics,  or  literature, 
or  art,  does  not  pay.  It  is  not  wise.  When  the  public 
find  you  always  discontented,  always  looking  at  the  hope- 
less side  of  things,  always  declaring  that  everything  is 
going  to  the  bad,  they  begin  to  suspect  that  you  have 
reason  for  this  discontent — in  other  words,  that  your  cir- 
culation is  decreasing.     Now   that  is  a  fatal  impression. 


30  SHANDON  BELLS, 

Besides,  people  will  not  read  a  paper  that  fills  them  witli 
gloom.  Nor  can  you  bully  the  public  with  impunity.  It 
is  no  use  attacking  them,  and  scolding  them,  or  treating 
them  with  scorn  and  contempt.  You  see,  the  public  have 
simply  to  leave  you  unread,  and  that  is  a  terrible  business ; 
for  then,  you  perceive  you  can  not  hurt  them,  but  they  do 
hurt  you." 

"  I  should  have  thought,"  said  Hilton  Clarke,  with  a 
gentle  smile,  "  that  the  circulation  of  the  Weekly  Gazette 
was  some  wliat  bigger,  a  little  bit  bigger,  than  that  of  the 
Liberal  Review ^^ 

"  Yes  ;  no  doubt  no  doubt,"  sflid  the  other,  cheerfully, 
"  though  I  am  in  hopes  of  seeing  their  relative  positions  re- 
versed some  day.  But  that  is  my  advice  to  you.  That  tone 
of  disappointment  with  everything  makes  people  begin  to 
think  that  you  are  not  getting  on  as  well  as  you  miglit  be  ; 
and  that  is  very  bad.  Then  the  advertisers.  Mind  you, 
the  advertisers  are  also  vertebrate  animals,  and  they  make 
up  a  considerable  proportion  of  the  public.  And  if  you 
go  on  from  week  to  week  declaring  that  British  tradesmen 
are  universally  swindlers,  that  railway  directors  should  be 
indicted  for  wilful  murder,  and  so  forth,  mind  you,  your 
advertising  agent  may  have  a  bad  time  of  it.  Say  he  goes 
into  a  big  cutlery  place  in  Oxford  Street.  The  foreman 
goes  up  to  the  master:  *Here  is  the  advertisement  man 
from  the  WeeJdy  Gazette^  sir.  He  wants  us  to  take  the  out- 
side page  next  week.'  Then  very  likely  the  cutler  may 
turn  round  and  say ;  '  The  'Weekly  Gazette  be  hanged  ! 
Tell  him  that  swindling  isn't  paying  well  just  now,  and  we 
can't  advertise.  Swindlers,  indeed !  Swindlers  them- 
gelves  !     The  Weekly  Gazette  be  hanged  ! '  " 

Now  this  advice,  though  it  seemed  to  young  Fitzgerald 
at  the  time  to  be  not  quite  in  accordance  with  the  mat 
ccelum  principles  professed  by  the  Liberal  Review  (which 
was  a  very  courageous  and  vehement  and  plain-spoken 
organ),  nevertheless  appeared  to  him  to  be  sound  and  sen- 
sible. Accordingly,  he  now  resolved  that,  if  the  merits 
of  the  book  permitted  it  at  all,  he  would  treat  it  in  the 
most  friendly  fashion.  Instead  of  scourging  him  with  rods 
from  out  the  groves  of  Academe,  thQ  Liberal  Review  would 
take  this  new  disciple  by  the  hand,  and  encourage  liim, 
and  bid  him  be  of  good  cheer.  Or  what  if  the  book  were 
very  good  indeed,  and  altogether  beyond  need  of  patron- 
age ?    Then  let  literature  be  congratulated  on  this  new  ad- 


SHANDON  BELLS.  31 

hesion.  Fitzgerald  remembered  that  iha  TAhcral Hcmew 
was'  rather  fond  of  making  discoveries.  No  reviews  of  the 
book,  at  least  of  any  importance,  had  appeared,  though  peo- 
ple were  talking  enough  about  it.  Miglit  not  lie  be  the 
first  to  announce  the  advent  of  a  new  power  in  literature  ? 
If  he  only  had  the  book — here — at  once — 

"  And  never  hroufjht  to  mind  ?" 

Again  came  the  giant  roar  from  below.  And  what  n  ten- 
acious memory  the  musician  must  have!  was  Fitzgerald's 
first  thought,  ten  minutes  certainly  having  elapsed  since  lie 
gung  the  first  line.  And  surely  there  must  be  some  shaft  or 
opening  in  the  floor  ;  otherwise  the  sound  could  not  come 
through  in  such  volume.  And  what  if  perchance  that  shaft 
should  be  over  the  musician's  head,  on  wliich  a  bucket  of 
water  might  be  made  to  descend  suddenly  at  the  next 
bellow  ? 

But  there  was  to  be  no  more  bellowing,  except,  indeed, 
a  verse  of  the  national  anthem,  which  Fitzgerald  had  already 
learned  to  recognize  as  the  token  that  the  artist  was  about 
to  retire  for  tlie  night,  pleased  or  not,  as  the  case  might 
be,  with  his  work.  "  Go-o-o-d  sa-ve  the  Qu-e-en  ! "  roared 
the  deep  bass  voice  in  dying  cadence ;  then  there  was  a  curi- 
ous clamping  and  shuffling,  as  if  some  one  were  doing  a 
lieel-and-toe  step  on  a  wooden  floor ;  then  silence.  Either 
the  artist  was  having  a  final  pipe,  or  he  had  gone  to  bed. 

Next  morning  eleven  o'clock  was  the  earliest  hour  at 
which  Fitzgerald  deemed  it  fitting  he  should  go  to  the  office 
of  the  Liberal  Remew  for  the  book  ;  and  even  then  he  did 
not  think  it  probable  that  Mr.  Gifford  could  have  sent  a 
message  so  soon.  To  his  surprise,  however,  there  the  pre- 
cious parcel  was  awaiting  him  ;  and  so  eager  was  he  to  see 
what  sort  of  material  this  was  on  which  he  was  to  operate 
that  the  moment  he  got  on  the  top  of  the  first  passing  Ful- 
ham  omnibus  he  hastily  undid  the  parcel,  put  two  volumes 
m  his  pocket,  and  proceeded  to  cut  the  leaves  of  the  other. 
He  glanced  over  the  first  page  or  two — very  good  :  a  sort 
of  playful  introduction,  light,  facetious,  well  written ;  in 
short,  a  clever  little  essay  about  a  country  house  and  its 
guests  in  the  hunting  season.  But  the  reviewer  was  more 
anxious  to  get  to  the  people  ;  and  these  turned  out  to  be  in 
the  first  instance,  the  three  daughters  of  a  duchess^  who 
were  at  the  same  moment  in  their  respective  dressing-rooms, 


82  SHANDON  BELLS. 

and  each  imparting  confidences  to  her  maid.  It  was  in- 
geniously arranged  that  these  confidences  sliould  be  reported 
in  turn  ;  and  there  was  a  very  comical  similarity  among 
them,  seeing  that  they  all  referred  to  a  youthful  marquis  of 
Vitst  possessions  who  was  to  arrive  at  the  house  that  evening, 
and  to  the  probable  effect  on  him  of  certain  costumes  and 
styles  of  dressing  the  hair. 

Now  Fitzgerald  knew  a  great  deal  more  about  the 
habits  of  a  "  stand  "  of  golden  plovjr  than  about  the  ways 
and  speech  of  duchesses '  daughters  ;  but  he  soon  began  to 
form  the  impression,  and  much  to  his  disappointment,  that 
all  this  artificial  talk,  clever  as  it  might  be,  was  entirely  im- 
possible in  the  circumstances.  JSTay,  he  began  to  feel  just  a 
touoh  of  resentment  that  three  young  Englishwomen  of  good 
birth  and  breeding  should  have  been  represented  as  exliibit- 
ing  themselves,  to  their  own  domestics,  as  so  many  flippant 
and  giggling  barmaids.  It  is  true  that  Fitzgerald's  father 
kept  a  small  country  hotel  (and  even  that  he  did  unsuc- 
cessfully), but  the  Fitzgeralds  of  Inisheen  were  an  old  family, 
and  had  always  been  held  of  consequence  in  that  part  of 
Ireland:  Master  Willie  had  been  accustomed  all  his  life  to 
be  addressed  as  "yer honor"  when  out  over  bog  and  hill 
in  search  of  game  ;  and  M-as  himself  possessed  of  not  a 
little  faith  in  the  virtues  of  lineage  and  good  blood.  And 
was  it  possible,  he  almost  indignantly  asked  himself,  that 
any  three  young  Englishwomen  of  decent  parentage  and 
education — putting  the  duchess  out  of  the  question  alto- 
gether— should  have  so  little  self-respect  as  to  make  con- 
fidantes of  their  maids  in  this  fashion,  and  reveal  their 
mean  little  schemes  with  the  pertness  of  a  soubrette  in  a 
fifth- rate  farce  ? 

He  passed  on,  however,  in  hope.  The  marquis  arrives 
just  in  time  to  be  sent  off  to  dress  for  dinner.  Then  the 
people  of  the  neighborhood  who  are  coming  to  dine  were 
introduced;  and  here  there  was  some  very  fair  humorous 
sketching  of  a  light  kind,  Fitzgerald  marking  down  one  or 
two  passages  for  approval.  He  read  on  and  on,  until  he 
arrived  at  the  courtyard.  He  read  on  and  on  (not  so  hope- 
ful now),  while  his  landlady  brought  him  a  chop,  some 
bread,  and  a  glass  of  ale — his  midday  meal.  He  scarcely 
paid  heed  to  these  things,  so  busy  was  he  with  this  book — 
so  anxious  to  make  something  out  of  it — so  disappointed 
at  finding,  with  all  the  occasional  smartness,  the  characters 
not  flesh-and-b]ood  creatures  at  all,  but  mere  ghosts.     The 


SHANDON  BELLS.  H3 

ilry  bones  would  not  live.  By  four  o'clock  he  had  finished 
the  book ;  and  he  laid  it  down  with  a  sigh. 

Yet  out  of  it  he  had  to  make  an  article  somehow  ;  more 
than  that,  he  was  determined  to  have  it  done  that  very 
night,  so  that  the  editor  of  the  Liberal  Meview  should  see 
that  he  could  do  his  work  promptly.  So  he  set  to  work 
forthwith;  and  labored  and  labored  away  to  make  some- 
thing out  of  the  dry  husks.  Fortunately  the  bellowing 
gentleman  beneath  was  absent ;  and  he  could  work  on  in 
silence.  The  hours  passed  ;  he  had  a  cup  of  tea.  Finally, 
after  much  correction  and  rewriting,  he  had  a  piece  of  work 
put  together  which,  if  it  did  not  form  a  highly  interesting 
article,  was,  he  thought,  as  fair  a  judgment  of  the  book  as 
he  could  give. 

Just  tlien,  it  being  nearly  nine  o'clock,  the  last  post 
brought  him  a  letter,  which  he  eagerly  seized,  for  though 
he  had  heard  from  Kitty  that  morning,  might  she  not  have 
taken  it  into  her  head — at  the  suggestion  of  her  tender 
lieart — to  send  him   another  little  note  by  some  strange 


"  My  dear  Willie, — That  blackguard  Maloncy — the 
devil  sweep  him  ! — won't  renew  tlie  bill  I  told  you  of,  and 
he's  going  to  put  his  low  scoundrel  of  a  brother  on  to  have 
the  law  of  me  if  I  don't  have  the  £40  ready  by  Tuesday 
next.  I  have  tried  to  raise  the  money,  but  devil  the  penny 
can  1  get  of  it.  Have  you  any  money  you  could  spare? 
'  Tis  a  mean  trick  of  Maloney's  :  sure  many's  the  time  I've 
lu^lpod  his  old  grandfather  when  he  hadn't  as  much  clothes 
on  iiis  back  as  would  have  lifted  the  kettle  from  the  fire. 
Bad  luck  to  him,  '  tis  all  because  my  Marshal  McMahoa 
beat  his  old  scarecrow  of  a  galloper  at  Drimoleague. 
"  Your  affectionate  father, 

''  Edward  Fitzgerald." 

Master  Willie  had  arrived  in  London  with  £38  in  hisf 
])ocket ;  and  that  was  the  total  of  his  worldly  wealth.  Had 
tliis  letter  come  at  any  other  moment,  it  is  possible  he  might 
have  thought  it  hard  he  should  have  to  part  with  that  sum, 
or  rather  the  greater  part  of  it,  to  pay  his  father's  Coursing 
Club  debts.  But  what  did  he  care  for  a  few  sovereigns 
when  a  fine  career  had  just  been  opened  before  him,  with 
no  other  than  Kitty  as  the  final  crown  and  blushing  and 
beautiful  reward  ?     Here  was  his  first  contribution  to  the 


34  SIIANDON  BELLS. 

Liberal  Jieview  ready  to  be  deposited  in  tlie  letter-box.  To- 
morrow lie  was  to  see  Mr.  Hilton  Clarke  about  the  sub- 
editorship  of  the  new  magazine.  And  this  morning  what 
was  the  message,  written  in  that  sprawling  but  most  lovable 
hand! — "O  Willie  darling,  liiake  haste  and  get  on,  and 
come  back  to  me  !  And  if  your  fine  friend  introduces  you 
to  any  of  the  beautiful  London  ladies,  just  tell  them,  that 
there's  a  poor  girl  in  Ireland  that  is  breaking  her  heart  for 
your  sake.'  "  No ;  it  was  not  at  such  a  moment  he  was 
going  to  consider  the  question  of  a  few  pounds. 
So  he  wrote  : — 

"  My  dear  Father, — I  have  altogether  now  £38,  of 
which  I  send  you  £30,  for  I  must  keep  a  small  margin. 
Then  you  can  bring  *  my  gun  to  Lord  Kinsale's  new  agent  (I 
forget  his  name),  who  offered  me  £6  for  it  when  he  knew 
I  was  going  away.  The  other  £4  you  will  make  up  some- 
how ;  but  don't  sell  old  Bess  ;  she  and  I  may  still  live  to  have 
another  turn  at  the  snipe  some  day.  I  think  1  have  a  good 
piospect  here  ;  more  particulars  by  and  by. 
"  Your  affectionate  son, 

'*  William  Fitzgerald." 

That  letter,  of  course,  he  could  not  send  off  just  then  : 
the  money  had  to  be  made  transferable  first.  But  here  was 
this  other  one  for  Mr.  Gifford — which  from  time  to  time 
he  regarded  with  a  qualm  of  anxiety,  not  quite  certain  that, 
after  all,  he  had  done  his  best,  However,  he  resolved  that 
it  was  now  too  late  for  doubt ;  he  took  it  up,  sallied  forth 
into  the  night,  sought  out  the  nearest  pillar  letter-box,  and 
there  deposited  the  fateful  packet.  Tiiat  decisive  step  once 
taken,  his  heart  felt  somewhat  lighter.  The  night  was  fine, 
and  he  went  on  aimlessly  wandering  along  the  gaslit  pave- 
ments, thinking  of  many  things,  but  mostly  of  Inisheen,  and 
perhaps  most  of  all  of  an  inland  glen  not  far  from  there,  and 
of  running  water,  and  of  a  certain  moonlight  night.  Was 
not  this  Kitty's  soft,  low,  trembling  voice  he  could  hear 
again  in  the  silence  ? — "  J/y  love  I  give  to  you\  my  life  1 
pledge  to  you  ;  my  heart  I  take  not  hack  from  you,  lohile 
this  water  runsJ'*  And  })erhaps  she  also — far  away  there 
beyond  the  sea,  up  in  the  little  room  overlooking  the  wide 
sands — was   recalling  these  words  at   this   moment  ;  and 

*  He  meant  "  take."    But  Master  Willie  liad  not  quite  got  riil  of 
all  Ills  Irishisms,  despite  his  study  of  the  style  of  the  Liberal  Beview, 


SHANDON  BELLS.  35 

perhaps  also  shivrering  alktle  as  she  thongbC  of  Don  Fierna 
and  his  elves? 

It  was  nearly  twelve  o'clock  when  he  returned  to  the 
dirn  little  courtynrd  ;  and  he  was  very  tired  ;  and  perhaps 
the  loneliness  of  this  great  dark  world  of  London  was 
beginning  to  weigh  on  him  ;  so  that  he  was  glad  to  think 
of  his  escape  into  the  realms  of  sleep  (where  Kitty  was 
sometimes  found  walking  about,  with  her  soft  black  eyes 
laughing,  and  her  voice  as  glad  as  ever).  But,  as  it  turned 
out,  his  adventures  for  that  night  were  not  just  yet  over. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

A   NEW   ACQUAINTANCE. 


Fitzgerald  was  just  about  to  pass  through  the  arch- 
way leading  into  the  courtyard,  when  he  heard  a  sudden 
scuffling  in  front  of  him,  and  then  a  man's  voice  call  out^ 
"  Help  !  help  !  police  !  "  Instinctively  he  paused  ;  for  he 
had  no  mind  to  enter  into  other  people's  squabbles ;  and, 
besides,  he  could  not  well  see  what  was  going  on.  But  his 
appearance  on  the  scene  had  no  doubt  produced  some 
effect ;  for  before  he  had  had  time  to  think,  a  man  had 
dashed  p:5st  him.  Fitzgerald  was  in  truth  bewildered  ;  he 
had  been  dreaming  of  Inisheen,  not  thinking  of  midnight 
robberies  in  London.  And  now  he  was  incaned  to  let  well 
alone,  and  thank  God  he  was  rid  of  a  knave,  when  another 
dark  figure  dashed  by — quite  close  by,  indeed — and  at  the 
same  moment  he  felt  a  sharp  blow  on  his  face.  This  was 
too  much.  This  brought  him  to  his  senses.  He  did  not 
know  exactly  where  he  had  been  struck ;  but  he  knew  that 
his  face  was  tingling;  he  knew  that  he  had  a  stout  oak  staff 
in  his  hand,  with  a  formidable  knob  at  the  end  of  it ;  and 
the  next  thing  he  knew  was  that  he  was  in  full  chase  down 
the  Fulham  Road  with  the  most  unchristian-like  determi- 
nation to  give  as  good  as  he  had  got,  or  even  better. 

The  first  man  had  disappeared,  but  this  one  was  just 
ahead  ;  and  Fitzgerald  was  well  aware  that  his  only  chance 
was  to  overtake  the  fellow  before  he  could  dodge  into  some 
byway  or  corner.     Kow  the  thief,  or  burglar,  or  whoever 


3G  SHANDON  BELLS. 

ho  was,  ran  very  well,  but  his  muscles  had  not  had  tliat 
training  over  rock  and  heather  that  his  pursuer's  had,  and 
the  consequence  was  that  in  a  very  short  space  of  time 
young  Fitzgerald  had  so  nearly  evertaken  his  man  (and 
was  so  fearful  of  letting  him  escape)  that  he  aimed  a  blow 
at  the  back  of  the  fellow's  head  with  his  stout  oak  staff. 
The  next  minute  Master  Willie  had  nearly  fallen  over  the 
body  of  his  prostrate  foe  ;  for  down  he  had  come  after  that 
sounding  whack,  prone  on  the  pavement  where  he  lay 
witliout  a  sign  of  life. 

Then  a  third  man  came  rushing  up  ;  and  Fitzgerald 
faced  about,  feeling  now  rather  angry,  and  inclined  to  have 
it  out  with  the  rogues  of  London  generally.  But  he  in- 
stantly perceived  that  this  little  bare-headed  red-bearded 
man,  who  now  came  wildly  along,  was  no  other  than  an 
artist  whom  he  had  once  or  twice  observed  going  into  the 
studio  below  his  bedroom. 

"  Fou've  got  him  ?  ''  he  called  out,  in  great  excitement ; 
"you've  got  one  o'  them  ?" 

"  Yes,  I've  got  him,"  answered  Fitzgerald,  "  and  now 
I've  got  him,  I'd  like  to  know  what  to  do  with  him." 

"The  scoundrels!  "  said  the  other,  breathlessly.  "If 
ye  hadna  come  up,  they'd  have  taken  every  penny  I  had  on 
me.  Eh,  man,*'  he  added,  staring  at  his  rescuer,  "  did  he 
hit  ye  ?  Your  face  is  a'  bluidy." 

Fitzgerald  had  indeed  felt  something  warm  and  moist 
about  his  cheek  and  chin;  and  when  he  put  his  handker- 
chief up  to  his  face,  he  could  see  by  the  dim  gaslight  tliat 
he  must  have  been  bleeding  pretty  freely. 

"  Yes,  he  did  ;  and  I  think  I  hit  him  too — unless  he's 
shamming.  You  go  and  get  a  policeman,  and  I'll  wait 
here  by  this  fellow.  If  he  tries  to  bolt,  I'll  give  him  an 
other  taste  of  my  kipeen.^' 

The  wild-haired  artist  left  rapidly,  and  in  a  few  seconds 
returned  not  only  with  one  but  two  policemen,  whom  he 
had  found  talking  together,  and  into  whose  ears  he  was 
now  pouring  the  whole  story  of  how  it  happened. 

Just  as  they  came  up,  the  man  on  the  pavement  slowly 
raised  himself  on  his  knees,  and  began  to  rub  the  back  of 
his  head. 

"  Who  done  that  ?  "  he  muttered,  as  if  he  were  not  quite 
awake. 

Then  he  seemed  to  collect  himself  somewhat ;  lie  looked 
up  and  around ;  and  perceiving  the  approaching  policemen, 


sir  AN  DON  BELLS.  87 

he  uttered  tlie  one  word  "  Copped,"  and  resigned  himself 
to  his  fate. 

"  Why,  it's  the  Cobbler,  as  Fm  alive  ! "  said  one  of  tlie 
policemen,  getting  liold  of  liim  by  the  shoulder,  and  turn- 
ing tlie  apathetic  face  round  to  the  gaslight.  "  He's  been 
wanted  ever  since  that  job  in  the  Cromwell  Road," 

"Now  look  here,  my  good  fellow,"  said  the  Scotchman, 
"I'm  going  to  pick  up  my  hat.  I'm  no  going  to  the  station 
at  this  time  o'  night.  Ye  maun  take  my  name  and  address, 
and  I'll  come  in  tlie  morning,  and  prefer  the  charge — ■" 

"  That  '11  do  sir ;  there's  more  nor  one  job  agin  this 
man." 

"Off  to  the  station,  then,  wi'  the  scoundrel ;  and  don't 
lose  your  grip  of  him.  If  you,  sir,  "  he  said,  turning  to 
Fitzgerald,  "  will  walk  back  as  far  as  my  studio,  I  will  give 
you  a  basin  of  water  to  wash  your  face  in — it's  the  only 
way  I  can  thank  ye." 

"Oh,  but  we  are  neighbors,"  said  Fitzgerald.  "I  know 
you  well  enough.  You  are  the  man  who  makes  such  a 
frightful  row  with  your  Scotch  songs." 

"Eh  !  how  do  you  know  that?"  said  the  other,  sharply. 

"  Because  my  room  is  just  over  your  studio." 

"  Bless  me ! — then  you  are  the  man  that  goes  tramping 
up  and  down  all  night — tramp,  tramp — tramp,  tramp — then 
five  minutes'  rest — then  tramp,  tramp — tramp,  tramp — up 
and  down.  Man,  Fve  always  pictured  ye  as  a  sort  of  Eugene 
Aram,  wringing  your  hands ;  I  felt  sure  ye  had  murdered 
somebody.  Or  a  hyena  in  a  cage.  What  do  ye  gang  on 
in  that  way  for?  '"* 

"It's  a  bad  habit,  that's  all." 

"  But  what's  your  business  ?  "  said  the  other,  bluntly. 

"  I  write  for  newspapers." 

"  I  did  not  think  that  was  such  hard  work.  It  must  cost 
ye  a  lot  in  shoe-leather,"  said  the  Scotchman,  dryly  "How- 
ever, when  I've  got  my  hat,  ye  maun  come  in  and  have  a 
glass.  I  was  just  getting  back  to  my  supper,  when  they 
scoundrels  grippet  me.  I  wish  I  had  a  candle.  I'm  think- 
ing the  police,  now  we've  handed  over  to  them  such  a  noto- 
rious creeminal,  might  give  us  another  gas-lamp  in  this  in- 
fernal dark  yaird. " 

Without  the  aid  of  a  candle,  however,  he  soon  picked 
up  his  hat;  then  he  led  the  way  into  a  hollow-sounding  and 
apparently  spacious  room,  lit  the  gas,  and  forthwith  pro- 
ceeded to  get  his  companion   some  fresh  water   with  which 


38  SHANDON  BELLS. 

to  wash  his  face.  And  while  Fitzgerald,  who  found  that 
the  bleeding  had  proceeded  merely  from  the  nose,  and  that 
lie  was  not  cut  at  all,  was  performing  that  operation,  the 
Scotchman,  with  a  smartness  which  showed  that  he  was 
familiar  with  the  exigencies  of  camping  out,  had  lit  a  little 
gas  stove,  produced  some  tinned  meat,  and  put  a  quite  snow- 
white  tablecloth  on  a  small  table,  with  some  glasses,  'plates, 
knives,  and  forks. 

"  Now  we'll  have  a  bit  of  supper  and  a  crack,  "  said  he, 
"  since  we're  neighbors.  Will  I  make  ye  a  dish  of  hot  soup  ? 
Five  minutes  will  do  it." 

"  Oh  no,  thank  you,"  said  young  Fitzgerald,  who  was 
much  taken  with  the  frankness  of  tliis  short,  broad- 
shouldered,  red-bearded,  and  wild-haired  person.  ''  That 
tinned  beef  will  do  capitally  for  me.  But  what  I  should  like 
better  than  anything,"  he  said,  casting  his  eyes  round  the 
big,  gaunt,  and  dusty  studio,  which  had  very  little  furniture 
beyond  the  heaps  of  canvases  all  ranged  with  their  faces  to 
the  wall,  '*  would  be  to  have  a  look  at  your   pictures." 

"  My  pictures  ?  "  said  the  other.  "  Oh  yes.  As  ye're  a 
newspaper  man,  ye'rc  no  likely  to  be  a  buyer." 

"  You  would  rather  not  show  them  to  a  buyer,  then  ?" 

"  There  is  nothing  in  the  wide  world  I  hate  so  much,'* 
said  tlie  other,  busying  himself  with  the  table,  "  little  ex- 
perience as  I  have  of  it.  I  don't  mind  criticism — tlie 
sharper,  the  more  likely  I  am  to  get  something  out  of  it. 
But  the  valuation  in  money — that's  what  gangs  against  the 
grain.  Come,  sit  down,  man  ;  ye're  none  the  worse  for  the 
stroke  on  tlie  m)se.  The  water  is  near  boiling  already :  and 
ye'U  have  a  glass  of  toddy.  Here's  the  bottle,  and  there's 
the  sugar." 

"  Thank  you  ;  but  I  don't  drink  whiskey." 

"  Hwhat !  "  r.houted  the  red-bearded  artist,  nearly  letting 
the  bottle  fall.     "  Ilwhat  d'ye  say — " 

"  But  I've  got  some  beer  overhead.  I  will  fetch  some 
in  a  minute." 

"  Gude  preserve  us  laddie  !  but  if  it's  ale  ye  want,  there's 
a  bottle  or  two  in  the  corner.  What's  your  name,  by-the- 
way  r 

''  Fitzgerald." 

"  Mine's  Ross.  John  Ross.  Fall  to,  man  ;  there's  no 
use  wasting  time  over  meat  when  there's  a  pipe  and  a  glass 
o'  toddy  to  follow.  " 

Fitzgerald  soon    found    out  that    he    was    excessively 


SHANDON  BELLS  39 

hungry,  and  as  the  cold  beef  and  the  bottled  ale  were  alike 
excellent,  he  did  ample  justice  to  both,  while  with  equan- 
imity he  submitted  to  be  examined  and  cross-examined  by 
this  frankly  downright  acquaintance. 

"  You're  one  o'  the  lucky  ones,  1  can  see,"  said  Ross, 
when  Fitzgerald  had  told  him  how  his  literary  prospects 
were.  "  Ye've  fallen  on  your  feet  just  at  once.  Here  have 
I  been  in  London  near  six  years,  and  I  have  na  sold  ns  many 
pictures  as  I  have  sold  in  two  seasons  when  I  was  pentin' 
in  the  Trossachs  in  a  caravan.  But  bless  ye,  what  does  it 
matter?"  he  continued,  with  clieerful  good-lmmor.  "I 
have  all  the  more  pictures  to  sell  Avhen  I  do  fall  on  my  feet. 
I  envy  nobody,  so  long  as  I  can  get  a  crust  of  bread ;  for  I 
reckon  on  my  time  coming." 

"Of  course  if  you  were  to  get  into  the  Academy,  your 
pictures  would  have  a  great  additional  value,  I  suppose," 
Fitzgerald  observed. 

"  The  Academy  ?  "  said  John  Ross,  with  a  stare.  "  Do 
ye  mean  me  becoming  a  member  of  the  Academy  ?  " 

"  Of  course.  Isn't  that  the  natural  ambition  of  every 
artist?"  said  his  new  acquaintance. 

"  Oh,  but  that's  luck  beyond  anything  I'm  thinking  of," 
said  the  other,  imperturbably,  as  he  proceeded  to  pour  out 
some  scalding  hot  water  on  a  couple  of  lumps  of  sugar. 
*'  Just  think  of  all  the  men  there  are  pentin' ;  and  the 
chances  of  any  one  of  them  getting  such  a  stroke  of  luck 
as  that !  No,  no  ;  all  I  hope  for  is  that  they  who  are  in  the 
Academy  would  be  a  bit  friendly.  If  there's  any  one  bears 
them  a  grudge  it's  no  me — if  the  chance  happened  my  way, 
wouldn't  I  take  it?  and  how  can  I  blame  them?  Ko,  the 
bit  of  luck  I  hope  for  is  to  get  a  good  place  some  day  on 
the  wails ;  and  that  is  no  easy,  if  you  think  of  all  the  peo- 
ple who  want  to  be  hung.  They  did  hang  one  o'  mine  last 
year,  but  it  was  away  at  the  roof;  so  you  see  my  line  of 
luck  is  no  clear  before  me  yet,  and  yours  is." 

"But  I  have  only  the  chance,"  said  Fitzgerald.  "  Since 
I  have  come  to  London  I  haven't  earned  a  penny,  as  far  as 
I  know." 

"  Hear  till  him  !  Man,  ye've  everything  before  ye. 
Ye've  all  the  train  nicely  laid ;  ye've  only  to  light  the 
match,  and  ichaff  ^oe^  the  pouther  !" 

By  this  time  they  had  both  lit  their  pi] )es ;  and  John 
Ross  went  on  to  talk  about  his  own  art  in  a  way  that  very 
soon  astonished  his  companion.     Whether  he  could  paint 


40  SHANDON  DELLS, 

or  not  was  still,  so  far  as  his  companion  was  concerned,  an 
open  question,  but  at  least  lie  could  talk,  and  that  in  a  man- 
ner that  was  quite  surprising.  His  vague,  rambling  dis- 
course, warming  up  now  and  again  into  enthusiasm,  was 
really  eloquent,  in  a  curious,  bizarre,  happy-go-lucky  kind 
of  fashion ;  full  of  figures,  of  quick,  happy  illustrations ; 
scornful  at  times,  as  he  hit  right  and  left ;  and  occasionally 
describing  an  object  as  if  he  had  flashed  a  ray  of  sunshine 
on  it.  Fitzgerald  was  intensely  interested,  and  could  have 
gone  on  forever  listening;  but  at  the  same  time  he  could 
not  help  wondering  what  the  actual  work  was  like  of  a  man 
who  was  at  one  moment  denouncing  the  pre-Raphaelites 
for  their  worship  of  sadness,  their  archaic  mannerisms,  and 
their  cast-iron  hardness  of  form,  and  at  the  next  denounc- 
ing the  French  landscape  artists  for  their  f uzziness  of  detail, 
their  trickiness,  their  evasion  of  daylight. 

"It  is  not  what  I  can  do  myself,"  he  said  at  last,  ob- 
serving that  Fitzgerald's  eyes  had  strayed  once  or  twice  to 
the  canvases.  "  It  is  what  I  know  I  sliould  try  to  do.  Sup- 
pose ye  want  to  paint  a  field  of  ripe  corn  ;  will  ye  get  at  it, 
do  ye  think,  by  sitting  down  and  pentin'  the  stalks  and  the 
heads — ay,  if  ye  were  to  spend  a  life-time  at  it,  and  paint 
fifty  thousand  of  them  ?  Ay,  and  if  ye  painted  a  hundred 
thousand  of  them  as  like  as  could  be,  ye'd  be  no  nearer  get- 
ting at  your  cornfield.  For  what  ye  have  to  paint  is  what 
ye  see ;  and  when  ye  look  at  a  cornfield  ye  see  nae  single 
stalks  at  all,  but  a  great  mass  of  gold,  as  it  were,  with  u 
touch  of  orange  here,  or  paler  yellow  there,  and  a  wash  of 
green  where  the  land  is  wet,  and  sometimes  of  warm  red 
even,  where  the  stalks  are  mixed  with  weeds  and  ye  are  no 
going  to  get  that  color  either  by  chasing  the  daylight  out  of 
t)ie  sky,  and  taking  the  thing  into  a  room,  and  making  a 
clever  bit  of  a  fuzzy  sketch  in  gray  and  green  and  black. 
That's  easy — but  it's  no  the  cornfield.  Ay,  and  there's 
more.  Ye've  got  to  paint  more  than  ye  see.  Ye've  got  to 
put  just  that  something  into  the  cornfield  that  will  make 
people's  hearts  warm  to  it  when  they  see  it  on  your  canvas. 
Suppose  that  ye've  been  ill  for  a  month  or  two  ;  laid  on  your 
back,  maybe,  and  sick  tired  of  the  pattern  on  the  walls  o' 
your  room ;  and  at  last  the  day  comes  when  the  doctor 
thinks  you  might  be  lifted  into  a  carriage  and  taken  oot  for 
a  drive.  And  we'll  say  it's  a  fine  warm  afternoon,  and 
your  heart  is  just  full  of  wonder  and  gladness,  like,  at  the 
trees  and  the  soft  air ;  and  we'lt  say  that  all  of  a  sudden, 


SHAN  DON  BELLS.  41 

at  the  turning  o'  the  road,  ye  come  in  siclit  of  this  field  of 
ripe  corn,  just  as  yellow  as  yellow  can  be  under  the  after- 
noon sky.  Ay,  and  what  is  it  wlien  ye  see  such  a  wonder- 
ful and  beautiful  thing — what  is  it  that  brinjys  the  tears  to 
youreen?     I  say,  what  is  it?     For  it's  that  ye've  got  to 

catch  and  put  in  your  picture,  or  ye'll  be  a  d d  mistake 

as  a  painter !" 

Fitzgerald  did  not  stay  to  ask  him  whether  this  was  not 
demanding  that  the  landscape  painter  should  possess  the 
nervous  system  of  an  invalid  (though,  perhaps,  sometliing 
might  be  said  even  for  that  theory,  as  applied  to  all  forms 
of  art)  ;  he  was  much  too  interested  to  interrupt.  But  by 
a  singular  chance  Ross  drifted  away  from  painting  alto- 
gether. He  was  talking  of  the  instinct  for  good  color  that 
many  people  had  who  had  no  artistic  training  whatsoever, 
and  by  accident  he  referred  to  fish  and  artificial  flies,  and 
so  forth.     Fitzgerald  looked  up  suddenly. 

"  Are  you  a  fisherman,  too  ?  "  he  said,  quickly. 

"A  wee  bit.     Are  you?" 

"  I  have  thrown  a  fly,  "  said  Fitzgerald,  modestly,  and 
feeling  in  his  pocket  for  a  certain  envelope. 

"As  I  was  saying,  that's  why  I  hold  the  salmon  to  be 
the  king  o'  fish.  He  knows  good  color.  It's  no  use  trying 
liim  with  your  aniline  dyes  :  yellow  and  scarlet  and  gold — 
that's  what  he  watches  for ;  whereas  trout — ay,  and  even 
sea  trout,  are  a  mean,  depraved,  magenta  minded  race  o' 
creatures.  Man,  I  filled  my  basket  last  year  in  Perthshire 
wi'  the  most  miserable  puce  things. 

"  But  what  was  the  color? " 

"  Puce.  A  dirty,  drab-lilac  kind  of  thing  it  was.  But 
that  was  naething  to  the  fly  that  was  recommended  me 
for  sea  trout  in  Argyleshire — ay,  and  it  took,  too.  Just 
think  of  this  :  the  body,  arsenic  green  worsted,  with  a  bit  of 
white  tinsel ;  the  hackle,  a  purple-blue ;  and  the  wings — 
Heaven  knows  where  they  came  from  except  it  might  have 
been  from  a  hoodie  crow — a  heedjous  gray,  like  the  color 
of  a  decayed  corpse.  Do  ye  think  a  salmon  would  have 
looked  at  such  a  thing?" 

"  Perhaps,  "  said  Master  Willie,  as  he  slowly  drew  out 
an  envelope  from  his  pocket  and  put  it  on  the  table,  "  this 
would  be  more  to  his  liking?" 

"  Eh,  man !  "  said  Ross,  drawing  out  the  great  flies  in 
all  their  royal  si)lendor  of  crimson  silk,  and  yellow  tinsel, 
and  golden-pheasant  feathers.     "  Where  got  ye  them  ?  " 


42  SHANDON  BELLS, 

"I  have  been  amusing  myself  making  tliem  for  a  friend 
— the  man  I  tohi  you  about ;  I  could  not  think  of  any  other 
way  of  showing  him  I  was  sensible  of  his  kindness." 

"Ay,  did  ye  make  these  yoursel?  Now  that  I  think  of 
it,  ye  dinna  look  as  if  ye  had  spent  a'  your  life  in  a  news- 
paper office." 

"  I  have  spent  most  of  it  tramping  over  wild  bogs  and 
on  hillsides,  "  said  Fitzgerald,  with  a  laugh.  "A  good  deal 
more  than  I  should  have  done." 

*'  Shooting  ?  " 

"Yes." 

"What  sort?" 

"  Oh,  mostly  wild  fowl,  teal,  snipe,  woodcock,  and  so  on, 
chiefly  in  the  winter." 

"  Hard  work,  then  ?  " 

But  here  the  conversation  went  far  afield  ;  for  there 
were  descriptions  of  winter  nights  on  the  bog-land  and, 
winter  mornings  on  the  hill,  and  wild  adventures  along  the 
shore  in  snow-time  or  in  the  hard  black  frost.  Even  to 
Fitzgerald  himself — who  was  pleased  to  see  how  interested 
his  companion  was  in  these  reminiscences — it  seemed  that 
they  were  more  picturesque  now  and  here  in  London  than 
when  he  had  to  get  up  shivering  in  the  dark  morning,  and 
dress  by  candlelight,  and  sally  forth  through  the  silent 
streets  of  Inisheen.  He  forgot  the  wet  clothes  in  describ- 
ing the  view  from  the  mountain  side  outlooking  to  the  sea. 
He  forgot  the  mortification  of  misses  in  the  glory  of  lucky 
finds.  These  days  of  sport  that  are  lived  over  again  in 
memory  generally  end  with  a  heavy  bag;  and  however 
tired  and  cold  and  wet  and  hungry  the  sportsman  may  have 
been  in  realitv,  he  forgets  all  that,  and  remembers  only  the 
delight  with  which  that  heavy  bag  is  thrown  down  in  the 
hall,  and  the  warm  snug  evening  afterward,  when  the 
dinner  things  are  removed,  and  chairs  drawn  to  the  fire, 
and  the  friendly  tobacco  begins  to  throw  a  charm  over  the 
soul. 

Only  once  did  Fitzgerald,  who,  it  must  be  confessed,  had 
enjoyed  talking  over  these  things,  try  to  start  his  companion 
off  again  about  painting.  "Are  you  a  sea-painter?"  he  said. 
"Do  you  paint  sea-pieces  as  well ?"  and  then  he  glanced 
again  at  the  dusty  gray  canvases. 

"  I  ?  "  said  Ross.  "  No,  I  should  think  not  1  Why,  it 
would  break  my  heart.  Other  things  are  difficult  enough ; 
but  that !     Man,  I  see  pictures  of  the  sea  at  the  Academy 


SHANDON  BELLS.  43 

that  just  make  one  laugh.  Every  wave  as  accurately 
shaped  and  modelled  as  if  it  was  cast  out  of  melted  cannon ; 
every  little  turn  of  foam  as  clean  cut  as  a  meerschaum  pipe. 
God  !  the  fellows  must  be  cleverer  than  Joshua  the  son  of 
Nun,  for  they  must  have  got  the  sea  as  well  as  the  sun 
and  clouds  to  stand  still.  Did  ever  man's  eye  see  moving 
water  like  that  ? — moving  water,  that  is  a  constant  distrac- 
tion of  lights  and  shifting  shadows  and  forms — lightning 
touches,  ye  might  say,  so  swift  were  they — all  bewilder- 
ing and  glancing  round  ye ;  and  that  is  what  ye  begin  to 
cut  and  carve  and  stick  on  canvas  as  if  it  were  slices  of 
cream-cheese  on  the  top  o'  green  sealing-wax.  No,  no  ;  it's 
bad  enough  inland.  Even  when  ye  get  perfectly  still 
shadows  on  a  perfectly  still  loch,  there's  an  oily  kind  of 
glisten  that  no  pent-box  is  likely  to  get  for  ye.  Eh,  and 
such  chances  as  we  had  sometimes  at  the  wild  fowl  when 
we  were  camping  out — that  would  have  made  your  mouth 
water  ;  ay,  and  at  black  game  too.  Nearly  every  morning 
when  we  went  out  to  wash  in  the  burn — that  was  when  we 
had  the  caravan  in  the  Trossachs — I've  seen  them  walking 
about  without  the  least  fear  o'  us.  Maybe  the  old  black- 
cock would  give  a  cluck-cluck  of  warning,  but  the  hen  and 
her  brood  scarcely  heeded.  Deed,  I  once  hit  an  old  gray 
hen  with  a  pent-brush,  as  sure  as  death.  And  when,  at 
last,  the  keeper  lent  me  a  gun,  and  said  I  might  shoot  a  bird 
once  in  a  while — for  our  own  cooking,  ye  ken,  out  I  went 
as  early  as  six  o'clock."  So  again  they  were  back  on  the 
various  adventures  and  experiences  of  shooting ;  recalling 
vivid  rambles  in  other  years,  now  in  Inverness-shire,  now 
on  the  desolate  bog-lands  near  to  Inisheen.  And  so  inter- 
esting was  this  talk  that  when  Fitzgerald  definitely  rose  to 
depart,  at  the  hour  of  half-past  four  in  the  morning,  he 
had  almost  forgotten  he  had  not  seen  his  host's  pictures. 

"  Pictures,"  said  John  Ross,  with  a  laugh,  "  toots  no, 
man,  ye  can  see  pictures  any  day,  and  better  than  mine. 
But  I  would  like  ye  to  come  in  whenever  ye  have  half  an 
hour,  and  smoke  a  pipe,  and  let  us  know  how  ye  are  get- 
ting on." 

**  All  right,  I  shall  be  delighted,"  said  Fitzgerald,  most 
heartily.  "  And  I  may  learn  something  to-morrow — that 
Is  to  say,  if  my  nose  has  not  become  twice  its  natural  size, 
m  which  case  I  shall  keep  indoors." 


44  SHANDON  BELLS. 


CHAPTER  V. 

THE    BEGINNING   OF  A    CAREEK. 

However,  there  was  no  trace  of  tlie  blow  discoverable 
next  day,  and  so  on  this  fine  May  morning  Fitzgerald  set 
about  the  accomplishment  of  his  various  tasks.  First  of 
all,  he  had  to  accompany  his  artist  friend  to  the  police 
station,  though  indeed  he  harbored  no  sentiment  of  revenge 
against  the  luckless  Cobbler  who  had  once  more  fallen  into 
the  clutches  of  the  law.  Then  he  proceeded  to  get  the 
thirty  pounds  made  transferable  to  Ireland.  This  neverthe- 
less, he  did  with  some  compunction.  For,  if  he  was  to 
fight  his  way  in  London,  was  it  fair  to  Kitty,  who  had  in- 
trusted her  future  to  liim,  tliat  he  should  thus  throw  away 
the  sinews  of  war?  Was  it  not  running  a  tremendous  risk 
to  leave  himself  with  only  seven  pounds  before  securing 
some  definite  work?  But  then,  on  the  otlier  hand,  he  had 
fair  prospects  before  him ;  and  lie  had  the  courage  of  two 
or  three  and  twenty;  besides,  he  was  not  going  to  allow 
that  blackguard  Maloney  to  triumph  over  his  father.  Cours- 
ing Club  or  no  Coursing  Club.  And  so  he  went  and  sent 
off  tlie  money,  and  then  made  his  way  to  the  Albany, 
where  he  had  an  appointment  with  Mr.  Hilton  Clarke. 
When  Fiammetta  showed  him  into  tlie  richly-colored  room, 
he  found  that  gentleman  reclining  in  a  low  easy  chair,  in  a 
voluminous  dressing-gown  ;  arcigarette  in  one  hand,  a  paper- 
covered  novel  in  the  other,  while  before  him  on  the  little 
table  were  the  remains  of  a  French  breakfast. 

"  How  are  you,  Fitzgerald  ?  "  he  said,  throwing  aside 
the  book.  "Sit  down  and  have  some  coffee  and  a  cigar- 
ette. No  ?  You'll  find  that  Chartreuse  worth  trying. 
Well,  and  what  did  you  think  of  the  great  Gifford  ?  Was 
the  godlike  man  up  to  your  expectations?  " 

"  I  was  very  m!ich  interested,"  said  Fitzgerald,  rather 
timidly ;  for  indeed  he  did  not  like  the  way  in  which  Mr. 
Hilton  Clarke  spoke  of  the  literary  calling  and  of  its  pro- 
fessors, whilst  he  did  not  wish  to  show  the  presumpt'"on  of 
putting  himself  into  antagonism  with  one  who  was  so  ranch 


SHANDON  BELLS.  45 

his  superior,  "  I  have  alwa3^s  had  a  great  regard  for  the 
Liberal  lievieio^  and — of  course  I  never  thougljt  I  should 
ever  meet  the  editor.  I  haven't  seen  you  to  thank  you  for 
giving  me  such  a  chance.  Perhaps  you  don't  quite  under- 
stand what  it  is  to  a  young  fellow  who  has  only  heard 
of  well-known  men.     I — I  thought  it  was  a  great  honor. 

"  Oh,  you  will  soon  get  rid  of  all  that  modesty,"  said  the 
otlier.     "It  is  a  useless  commodity  in  London." 

"  We  walked  home  together,"  continued  Fitzgerald, 
*'  as  far  as  Sloane  Sti-eet ;  and  Mr.  Gilford  was  good  ennngh 
to  say  I  might  try  my  hand  at  a  notice  of  that  new  novel 
Daphnes  Shadow  for  the  Liberal  Hevieic.^' 

"  The  devil  he  did !  What  can  have  made  him  so  good- 
natured  ?  " 

"  I  think  I  know,"  put  in  Fitzgerald,  dexterously.  "  His 
good-nature  was  caused  by  your  good-nature  in  recommend- 
ing me." 

"Oil,  that  was  nothing,"  said  the  other,  carelessly, 
"  Well,  you  must  be  cautious  how  you  set  about  it.  Bring 
the  book  to  me." 

"  But  I  have  already  sent  in  the  review." 

"  Already  ?     You  haven't  been  wasting  time,  then." 

"  And  I  liave  been  doing  more  than  that,"  said  Fitz- 
gerald, pulling  out  a  certain  envelope.  "  I  have  been  put- 
ting together  a' few  salmon  flies  for  you,  if  you  care  to  have 
them.  I  found  I  could  get  the  materials  better  in  Lon- 
don." 

"  Ah,  thanks — much  obliged,"  said  Hilton  Clarke, 
taking  out  one  or  two  of  the  ilies  with  his  beautiful  white 
fingers.  '•  But  about  this  review.  I  am  afraid  the  gray- 
eyed  Athene  wasn't  looking  after  you  wlien  you  sent  it  in 
in  such  a  hurry.  I  wish  you  had  come  to  me  first.  Young 
reviewers  don't  seem  to  understand  that  they  ought  to  con- 
sider for  whom  they  are  writing  when  tlrey  write.  It  isn't 
the  public;  the  public  judge  for  themselves  nowadays; 
dinner  tables  and  clubs  do  all  that.  Nor  the  author;  tlie 
author  is  pig-headed  ;  besides,  if  you  don't  tell  him  he  is 
better  th'in  Byron  or  Shakspeare,  he  will  think  you  are 
devoured  with  jealousy  and  sj)ite.  No,"  continued  Hilton 
Clarke,  as  he  carefully  rolled  up  another  cigarette,  "you are 
writing  for  your  editor.  He  is  the  audience  you  ought  to 
consider.  He  is  the  person  you  must  impress  with  a  con- 
viction of  your  sagacity.  Now,  to  do  that,  you  see,  you 
want  experience  ;  you  want  to  know  your  man.   I  wish  you 


46  SHANDON  BELLS. 

Iharl  come  to  me.  I  suppose  it  never  occurred  to  you  to  put 
John  Brown  into  the  review  you  wrote  for  Gifford?" 

"  John  Brown  ?  "  said  Fitzgerald,  looking  bewildered. 
"What  John  Brown?" 

"John  Brown,  of  Harpei-'s  Ferry.  No,  you  never 
thought  of  that.  But  if  you  had  only  come  to  me,  I  could 
have  told  you  that  you  had  only  to  put  John  Brown  into 
the  review — anywhere,  anyhow — and  you'd  have  fetched 
old  Gifford  to  a  dead  certainty.  He  can't  withstand  John 
Brown.  All  you've  got  to  do,"  he  continued,  contemplat- 
ing one  of  the  salmon  flies  and  stroking  out  the  soft  featliers, 
"  is  to  take  John  Brown's  body,  without  any  wings,  or 
hackle,  or  tinsel,  as  one  might  say,  and  you  drop  that  fly 
quietly  over  Gilford's  nose,  and  he'll  rise  to  it  like  a  grilse 
just  fresh  run  from  the  sea." 

Fitzgerald  could  not  understand  why  this  friend  of  his 
lost  no  opportunity  of  throwing  taunts — however  they 
might  be  veiled  in  a  sort  of  scornful  fastidiousness — at  Mr. 
Gifford ;  but  for  the  constraint  with  which  he  listened  to 
such  speeches  there  were  also  other  reasons.  Among  the 
various  articles  of  young  Fitzgerald's  creed  (he  was  only 
three-and-twenty)  there  were  none  he  clung  to  more  implic- 
itly than  these  two :  first,  that  the  great  majority  of 
womankind  were  honest  and  honorable,,  self-denying, 
believable,  and  worthy  of  all  the  beautiful  things  that  had 
been  said  about  them  by  the  poets  ;  and  secondly,  that 
literature  was  one  of  the  noblest  callings  on  the  face  of  tlie 
earth,  and  that  he  who  did  good  work  therein — whether  it 
was  definitely  adding  to  the  world's  possessions  in  that 
way,  or  whether  it  was  merely  in  teaching  men,  from  week 
to  week,  what  they  ought  to  value — was  a  public  benefactor 
who  ought  to  be  regarded  with  respect  and  affection  and 
gratitude.  Now  on  both  these  points  Mr.  Hilton  Clarke 
discoursed  with  a  complacently  open  scepticism ;  and  at 
such  times  Fitzgerald  wished  he  could  close  his  ears  against 
this  talk,  not  that  it  in  the  slightest  degree  affected  his 
beliefs,  but  that  it  affected  what  he  wished  to  regard  as  the 
character  of  his  friend.  Fitzgerald  was  naturally  a  hero 
w('rshipper,  and  he  was  capable  of  a  warm  gratitude.  Ho 
wished  to  think  the  best  of  his  friend.  And  when  Hilton 
Chirke  talked  in  this  fashion — which  he  seemed  to  enjoy  in 
proportion  as  Fitzgerald's  face  fell — the  latter  did  try  to 
close  Ills  ears  as  much  as  he  could.  Then,  again,  when  he 
left  he  would  try  to  forget  all  that  he  had  heard.    He  would 


S HAND  ON  BELLS,  47 

remember  only  Hilton  Clarke's  best  points — the  charm  of 
his  conversation  when  he  happened  to  light  on  some 
literary  point  that  interested  him  ;  his  great  kindness  shown 
to  a  mere  stranger  met  by  chance  in  the  south  of  Ireland; 
and  his  personal  courtesy  (the  way  in-  which  he  had  come 
to  the  relief  of  his  improperly  attired  guest  was  still  fresh 
in  Fitzgerald's  mind).  Besides,  perhaps  his  experience  of 
women  had  been  unfortunate ;  and  perhaps  his  disparage- 
ment of  contemporary  literature,  especially  of  critical 
literature,  was  due  to  a  sort  of  modesty,  seeing  that  he  him- 
self held  an  enviable  position  in  it 

"  Well,  now,  Fitzgerald,  let's  get  on  to  this  magazine 
business.     Won't  you  smoke?" 

"  No,  thank  you,  I  never  smoke  till  night ;  it  takes  up 
too  much  time." 

"  Ah,  the  eager  impetuosity  of  youth  !  When  you  get 
a  dozen  years  older,  you'll  be  glad  of  something  lo  help  you  to 
pass  the  hours.  Well,  my  friend  the  capitalist  has  got  some 
impetuosity  too.  In  one  day  he  has  managed  to  secure  a 
business  manager  for  us,  and  also  a  publishing  ofHce  in  the 
Strand.  No  doubt  we  should  start  as  soon  as  possible  ;  for 
in  a  short  time  every  one  will  be  in  London  for  the  season, 
and  then  it  is  that  people  begin  to  talk  about  their  plans  for 
the  autumn.  Scobell  suggests  the  week  after  next ;  but  that 
is  clearly  impossible.  We  must  have  material  to  begin 
with  ;  people  won't  pay  a  shilling  for  a  mere  programme  of 
our  intentions.  My  private  impression  is  that  the  capitalist 
imagines  he  will  find  himself  a  person  of  importance  in 
society  through  his  connection  with  this  magazine ;  but  it 
will  be  part  of  your  business,  Mr.  Sub-Editor,  to  remember 
that  it  is  I  who  am  editor  of  the  magazme,  and  not  Dick 
Scobell." 

"  Oh,  of  course.  I  know  what  rows  with  proprietors 
are,"  said  Fitzgerald. 

"Proprietors  are  the  most  unreasonable  of  mortals. 
They  don't  understand  their  proper  sphere  of  duty — which 
is  to  pay  and  look  pleasant.  If  the  venture  succeeds,  they 
get  good  interest  for  their  money.  If  it  doesn't,  they  don't 
mend  matters  by  coming  in  at  intervals,  like  a  Greek  cho- 
rus :  *  Oh !  oh  !  oh  !  Woe  !  woe  !  woe  !  '  Now,  as  regards) 
your  own  position,  Fitzgerald,"  he  said,  as  he  poured  out  a 
small  glass  of  Chartreuse,  showing  as  he  did  so  a  singular- 
looking  ring  on  his  finger,  consisting  of  a  little  Indian  god, 


4S  SllANDON  BELLS. 

in  gold,  fastened  on  a  broad  silver  hoop.  "Have  you  co» 
sidered  the  question  of  remuneration  ?  " 

"  As  regards  myself  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  Not  in  the  least,"  said  Fitzgerald,  with  something  of  a 
blush.  "I  don't  expect  very  much  at  the  outset.  I  think  1 
am  very  lucky  to  get  a  start  so  early  after  coming  to  Lon- 
don. There  is  an  artist  neighbor  of  mine  who  thinks  1  have 
been  very  lucky  indeed,  and  he  considers  everytliing  a  matter 
of  luck,  even  getting  elected  a  member  of  the  Academy." 

"  He  must  have  been  looking  at  this  year's  exhibition," 
said  Hilton  Clarke,  dryly.  "Well,  now,  this  capitalist  friend 
gives  me  a  lump  sum,  I  may  explain  to  you,  and  liolds  mo 
responsible  for  all  the  literary  matter,  and  for  having  the 
thing  properly  put  together.  What  you  will  have  to  do 
won't  interfere,  I  hope  and  think,  with  any  more  serious 
literary  work.  Very  well,  what  do  you  think  of  four  pounds 
a  week  ?  Speak  frankly,  you  know,  for  I  may  squeeze  the 
good  Scobell  a  little  further  yet." 

"  Four  pounds  a  week  ?"  said  Fitzgerald,  with  his  face 
brightening  up  with  surprise.  "  Tlien  my  artist  friend  was 
right,  I  had  five-and-twenty  shillings  a  week  from  the 
Cork  ChronicW 

"  It  is  enough,  then?" 

"Yes,  indeed.     It  is  far  more  than  I  expected." 

"  You  should  never  say  that.  It  is  not  wuse.  However, 
as  I  am  dealing  with  another  man's  money,  I  am  not  going 
to  reduce  the  offer ;  and  I  think  myself  it  is  a  fair  one. 
And  so  you  had  five-and-twenty  shillings  a  Aveek  on  the 
Cork  Chronicle  f  ^^  said  Hilton  Clarke,  regarding  the 
younger  man.  "  Twenty-live-shillings  a  week  ;  youth  and 
Jiealth  and  high  ambition  ;  and  somebody  to  write  love 
verses  about.  I  suppose  you  were  not  unhappy?  Oh  yes, 
X  could  detect  that  subtle  inspiration  iiere  and  there,  in 
whatever  guise  the  young  lady  turned  uj).  But  I  have  al- 
ways had  a  suspicion  that  when  youthful  poets  gave  their 
sweethearts  long  and  sounding  names,  the  ladies  themselves 
were  rather  short  of  stature.  Is  not  that  so?  It  is  like 
calling  a  musical  little  verse  in  Horace  a  choriambic  dimeter 
acatalectic.  The  Lady  Irmingarde,  for  example.  That  is 
a  fine  name  ;  but  I  would  wagej-  now  that  the  Lady  Irmin- 
garde is  not  over  five  feet  three." 

"I  don't  see  what  that  has  to  do  with  this  new  maga- 


SHANDON  BELLS.  49 

zine,"  said  Master  Willie,  striving  to  be  very  calm,  but  with 
all  the  quick  blood  of  the  Fitzgeralds  blazing  in  his  face. 

"  Don't  be  angry,  man,"  said  the  other,  good-naturedly. 
*'I  hope  it  will  have  a  good  deal  to  do  with  the  new  maga- 
zine. You  see,  in  every  well-conducted  household  you 
will  find  two  or  three  people  either  in  love  with  somebody 
or  other,  or  else  willing  to  think  of  the  days  when  they 
were ;  and  you  can't  appeal  to  that  sentiment  unless  you, 
the  writer,  have  a  fresh  fount  of  inspiration  to  draw  from. 
You  don't  suppose  that  the  old  writers,  when  they  were  de- 
scribing Helen,  formed  her  out  of  their  own  head  ?  Of  course 
not.  Of  course  they  turned  to  the  pretty  Chloe  or  the 
laughing  Lalage  of  their  acquaintance,  to  see  what  soft 
cheeks  and  pretty  eyes  could  be  likened  to.  Do  you 
remember  Symmon's  translation  of  that  passage  in  the 
Agamemnon  f — well,  it  is  rather  a  paraphrase  than  a  trans- 
lation ;  but  listen  to  this  as  a  piece  of  English : — 

'  When  first  she  Ccame  to  Dion's  towers, 
Oh,  what  a  glorious  sight,  I  ween,  was  there  ! 
The  tranquil  beauty  of  the  gorgeous  queen 
Hung  soft  as  breathless  summer  on  her  cheeks, 
Where  on  the  damask  sweet  the  glowing  zephyr  slept ; 
And  like  an  idol  beaming  from  its  shrine. 
So  o'er  the  floating  gold  around  her  throne 
Her  peerless  face  di^.  shine  ; 
And  though  sweet  softness  hung  upon  their  lids, 
Yet  her  young  eyes  still  wounded  where  they  looked.  * 

Is  not  that  fine  ? 

'  Yet  her  young  eyes  still  wounded  where  they  looked.  '  '* 

And  indeed  Fitzgerald  considered  it  was  so  fine,  and  so 
nearly  suggestive  of  a  pair  of  soft,  black,  innocent  young 
eyes  ihat  he  knew  of  far  away,  that  he  straightway  forgot 
all  his  wrath,  and  proposed  to  his  companion  that,  if  he 
had  time,  they  should  walk  down  to  the  Strand,  and  have 
a  look  at  the  offices. 

"  I  can't  very  well,"  said  Hilton  Clarke,  yawning  and 
stretching  out  his  long  legs,  and  stroking  his  yellow  beard. 
"  I  have  got  to  dress  first.  Then  I  am  going  on  to  Jermyn 
Street  to  the  Turkish  Baths.  Then  I've  got  one  or  two 
calls  to  make  in  the  afternoon.  But  you  might  go  down  if 
you  like,  and  introduce  yourself  to  the  manager.  His 
name  is  Silas  Earp.     And  don't  forget  we  must  have  a 


50  SHANDON  BELLS. 

touch  of  sentiment  in  the  magazine ;  it  is  wonderful  the 
interest  that  grown  peo}3le  take  in  young  people's  love 
a:ffairs.  Look  at  the  eagerness  with  which  they  read 
breach-of-promise  cases — the  more  absurd  the  better,  don't 
you  see?  for  they  are  delighted  to  find  other  people  mak- 
ing just  such  fools  of  themselves  as  they  did  at  the  same 
age." 

Well,  Fitzgerald  got  away,  and  was  rather  glad ;  for 
somehow  he  liked  Hilton  Clarke  better,  and  was  more 
grateful  to  him,  when  he  was  not  listening  to  him.  And 
now  indeed  the  day  was  joyful  to  him — a  fresh,  clear  May 
day,  with  the  pavements  of  Piccadilly  looking  quite  white; 
and  all  he  could  think  of  was  that  Kitty  would  not  know 
soon  enough  of  the  good  fortune  that  had  befallen  him. 
After  all,  Avhy  should  he  have  been  angry  about  the  men- 
tion of  the  Lady  Irmingarde.  It  was  only  good-humored 
banter.  For,  indeed,  as  Andy  the  Hopper  had  remarked 
*'  'twas  Masther  Willie  had  the  duck's  back,"  and  annoy- 
ances ran  clean  off  his  shoulders,  so  long  as  you  gave  him 
plenty  of  fresh  air  and  sunlight  and  a  moderate  share  of 
pavement  for  his  eager  and  rapid  walking. 

He  went  down  to  the  Strand,  and  saw  the  offices,  which 
were  in  a  sad  state  of  confusion  and  dust.  Likewise  he 
had  a  long  conversation  with  Mr.  Earp,  and  a  briefer  one 
with  the  great  capitalist  himself,  who  seemed  surprised 
that  Hilton  Clarke  had  not  shown  up,  though  Fitzgerald 
ventured  to  point  out  that  an  editor  could  not  be  of  much 
use  about  the  place  until  they  had  provided  him  with  at 
least  a  desk  and  a  penny  bottle  of  ink.  Then  with  one 
hurried  and  passing  glance  at  the  office  of  the  lAheral 
Heview — where,  perhaps,  that  first  contribution  of  his  was 
at  this  very  moment  under  consideration — he  sot  off  home  as 
fast  as  his  legs  could  carry  him,  anxious  to  fill  up  the  rest 
of  the  day  with  some  work,  and  also  in  the  secret  hope  of 
finding  a  letter  from  Kitty,  missed  by  his  early  outgoing  of 
that  morning,  awaiting  him.  Moreover,  he  was  very  hun- 
gry, after  these  many  hours ;  and  so,  on  reaching  his 
spacious  if  somewhat-bare  and  low-roofed  study,  he 
besought  his  landlady  to  cook  him  a  chop  with  all  conveni- 
ent speed.  And  indeed  that  was  a  right  royal  banquet 
that  he  enjoyed  there,  all  by  himself,  in  the  silent  big  room, 
made  cheerful  by  the  sunlight  streaming  in  at  the  open 
window  ;  for  if  it  consisted  only  of  a  chop,  some  bread,  and 
a  glass  of  ale,  was  there  not  a  letter  of  Kitty's,  over  a  dozen 


SHANDON  BELLS.  51 

pa^es  long,  to  serve  as  a  musical  and  laughing  accompani- 
ment? Tlie  sun  shone  warm  on  the  faded  rugs  on  the  floor  ; 
there  was  the  faintest  stirring  of  the  wind  among  the  young 
plane-trees  in  the  courtyard  outside ;  in  the  silence  it 
almost  seemed  as  if  he  could  hear  Kitty  talking  to  him. 
And  then,  again,  he  had  to  imagine  another  picture — that 
lofty  little  terrace  that  looked  down  on  Cork  and  over  to 
Shandon  steeple ;  and  a  small  room  there  ;  and  Kitty 
bending  over  these  precious  leaves,  and  sometimes  raising 
her  head  to  look  at  the  rain  or  to  think  of  him  far  away, 

"  AuDLEY  Place,  Tuesday. 
*'  My  beloyed  and  bonny  Coulin.* — What  I  have  done 
to  deserve  it  I  don't  know,  but  since  ever  I  came  back  to 
this  blessed  town  there  has  been  nothing  but  rain,  rain,  and 
^  rain,  and  the  Beautiful  City,  that  you  tried  to  make  me 
believe  was  like  Venice,  is  nothing  but  a  mass  of  smoke 
away  down  in  a  hole,  and  St.  Mary's  steeple  over  there 
seems  to  shiver  with  cold  when  it  strikes  the  half-hours  ; 
and  the  only  human  beings  within  sight  are  a  lot  of  rooks  in 
the  meadows  across  the  road,  and  you  can  tell  by  the  noise 
they  make  they  are  in  a  frightful  temper  because  of  the 
wet.  I  do  wonder  now,  more  than  ever,  where,  in  such  a 
climate,  a  certain  person  got  all  the  sunniness  that's  in  his 
face,  and  in  his  eyes,  and  more  particularly  his  harr.  Did 
he  take  all  there  was  to  get,  and  leave  none  ?  At  all  events. 
Master  Coulin,  it's  a  very  good  thing  for  you,  and  it's  a 
very  bad  thing  for  me,  that  you  and  I  did  not  live  in  the 
time  when  the  cold-hearted  Saxon  made  the  young  Irish- 
men crop  their  locks,  for  then  I  wouldn't  have  looked  at  you, 
and  Id  have  minded  my  own  proper  business.  Dear  me, 
the  audacity  of  some  people,  and  the  folly  of  others  !  Just 
when  a  good  contralto  is  worth  a  mint  of  money  in  Italian 
opera,  jealousy  steps  in  and  says.  No,  you  sha'n't;  you 
sha'n't  even  be  allowed  to  sing  in  England  ;  no  more  Crys- 
tal Palace  for  you ;  nothing  but  concerts  in  such  centres  of 
<iivilizatiou  as  Cork  and  Limerick  and  Belfast ;  and  just  to 
make  sure  of  hiding  away  such  a  diamond — no,  I  suppose 
it  should  be  an  emerald  in  Ireland — I'll  set  Don  Fierna 
and  his  wicked  elves  to  bind  you  in  invisible  chains,  and 
something  awful  will  happen  to  you  if  you  even  whisper 
La  Scala  in  your  dreams.  Well,  whether  it  was  her  tremen- 
*  Coulin  in  Irish  means  "  the  youth  with  the  flowing  hair."  Miss 
Romayne  was  doubtless  familiar  with  Moore's  songs. 


52  SHANDON  BELLS. 

dous  good-nature,  or  whether  it  was  the  sunlight  that  had 
got  into  the  brown  of  Mr.  Jealousy's  hair,  or  whether  she 
got  such  a  fright  with  the  ghosts  that  she  promised  any- 
thing without  the  slightest  notion  of  keeping  her  word,  I 
don't  know  ;  but  the  thing  was  done ;  and  then  all  of  a 
sudden — in  return  for  her  extraordinary  good-nature  and 
self-sacrifice,  she  finds  herself  a  forlorn  and  forsaken  damsel ; 
left  to  pace  up  and  down  the  sand  of  Inisheen,  which,  as 
Andy  the  Hopper  remarks,  is  so  firm  and  clean  that,  *  Sure, 
miss,  ye  might  walk  on  it  wid  a  satin  shoe.' 

"  Oh,  Willie,  I'm  sick  tired  of  the  rain,  and  I  don't  know 
what  I'm  writing  to  you.  I  was  wet  through  last  night 
coming  home.  What  induced  me  to  take  these  rooms  I 
don't  know.  I  shall  never  again  take  lodgings  where  one 
cannot  drive  home  on  a  wet  night.  But  Miss  Patience 
says  she  likes  large  views  ;  I  suppose  they  conform  with 
her  great  mind.  I  have  been  so  good,  Willie !  I  have 
been  really  so  very  good  that  I  don't  know  what  to  do  with 
myself,  and  I  expect  to  find  wings  sprouting  some  morning 
when  I  get  up.  I  haven't  gone  round  by  the  barracks 
once,  and  the  two  or  three  times  I  have  gone  round,  I  have 
kept  my  eyes  fixed  on  the  gravel  the  whole  way^  just  in  case 
a  young  ossifer  might  come  riding  out  (I  can  seethe  frown 
on  your  face  quite  clearly,  and  perhaps  it  isn't  safe  to  put 
jokes  in  a  letter,  when  one  isn't  by  to  be  scolded  for  imper- 
tinence, flippancy,  unladylike  manners,  and  all  the  pleasant 
rest  of  it).  So  we'll  get  back  to  business,  please,  and  tlie 
truth  is,  you  know.  Master  Willie,  although  it  has  been 
reserved  for  an  English  singer  to  reveal  to  the  Irish  people 
the  pathos  of  *  The  Bells  of  Shandon,'  all  the  same  the 
English  singer  can't  earn  a  living  by  singing  that  one  song, 
unless,  indeed,  she  were  to  sing  it  through  the  streets,  like 
Nellie  in  the  Green  Bushes.  No,  nor  even  when  she  makes 
a  skilful  selection  illustrating  the  wonderful  virtues  of  the 
Irish  people,  and  when  she  shifts  her  engagements  as  much 
as  possible  from  north  to  south,  and  east  to  west ;  yes,  and 
even  when  she  makes  excuses  for  pretty  long  holidays  at 
Inisheen  or  elsewhere — even  the  Irish  people,  though  liking 
to  be  told  of  their  virtues,  may  get  a  little  tired  of  her, 
and  wish  to  see  a  little  less  of  her.  In  that  case,  managers 
might  begin  to  hint  about  reduction  of  terms;  whereasi, 
even  at  present,  it's  just  about  all  she  can  do  to  keep  things 
straight — waiting    for    the    glorious    time    when    Prince 


S HAND  ON  BELLS,  53 

Golclenhair  is  coming  to  claim  her  and  cany  her  off,  Very 

Avell,  now  this  is  the  point :  at  the Theatre  in  DnbUn 

they're  going  to  put  in  a  panorama  between  the  pieces,  and 
they've  made  me  an  offer  (now  you  needn't  jump  out  of 
your  chair  like  that ;  it  isn't  to  go  on  the  stage)  ;  I  say 
they  liave  made  me  a  very  fair  and  liberal  offer  if  I  will  go 
and  sing  for  them — only  one  song  each  evening,  which  is 
light  work,  and  I  shall  have  no  expense  of  dresses  or 
gloves,  for  I  sing  in  the  '  wings '  unseen.  Don't  you  see 
the  panorama  is  really  a  series  of  pictures  of  Irish  scenery, 
and  when  they  come  to  the  finest  of  tliem — of  course  it's 
Killarney  in  moonlight ;  that's  because  they  don't  know  the 
glen  near  the  Blackwater  where  Don  Fierna  lives,  and 
where  mischief  is  done  to  the  hearts  of  poor  distressed 
damsels — then  the  orchestra  begins  to  play  very  softly  and 
sweetly,  and  then  you  hear  the  voice  of  an  angel  (that's  me) 
singing  away  somewhere — at  Innisfallen  or  Killeenalougha. 
I  don't  think  much  of  the  song  they  have  sent  me ;  but  I 
dare  say  it  will  sound  very  nice  in  that  mysterious  Avay, 
and  the  moonlight  and  the  view  of  the  lake  will  put  a  charm 
into  my  poor  singing.  Now,  Willie,  I  know  you  don't 
want  me  to  go  to  Dublin  ;  but  this  isn't  like  going  to  Dub- 
lin in  an  ordinary  kind  of  way,  for  my  name  won't  appear 
in  the  bills  at  all,  and  nobody  will  know  who  is  singing.  It 
will  really  be  a  long  holiday  for  me,  and  I  shall  come  back 
to  my  concert  series  after  a  sufficiently  long  absence  j  and  I 
promise  you  that  as  I  shall  have  no  audience  visible,  I  will 
sing  every  evening  just  as  if  I  were  singing  to  you,  and 
think  of.  you  all  the  time;  and  the  management  will  not 
have  reason  to  be  sorry  for  that.  Now  what  do  you  say  ? 
My  father's  half-pay  just  about  keeps  him,  you  know;  but 
I  have  always  tried  to  send  him  some  little  present  about 
midsummer  to  induce  him  to  go  down  to  Ramsgate  or  Mar- 
gate for  a  week.  Then  these  long  holdays,  even  with  all 
the  good  old  Patience's  economy,  have  very  nearly  emptied 
my  purse,  and  supposing  that  Prince  Goldenhair  were  sud- 
denly to  appear  and  say,  *  Look  sharp,  Miss  Kitty ;  I've 
found  the  bag  of  diamonds  I  went  for;  come  along!' 
"wouldn't  it  be  very  awkward  if  I  had  to  say,  '  Oh,  but,  dear 
sir,  I  haven't  got  a  farthing  to  buy  my  white  satin  dress 
with  '  ?  So  be  a  good  boy  and  don't  make  any  objections, 
and  every  night  I'll  think  of  you  as  I'm  singing  the  song — 
oh,  dear  me,  as  if  I  had  anything  else  to  do  now  but  think 
of  you  ;  with  a  bit  of  a  cry  now  and  again. 


! 


54  SIIANDON  BELLS, 

"  Wliat  is  the  use  of  my  writing  to  you  ?  I  know  what 
you  are  doing  at  this  moment.  You  are  not  working  at 
all ;  you  are  not  thinking  of  me  at  all ;  you  are  walking  in 
Hyde  Park  with  Mr.  Supercilious,  and  admiring  the  fine 
ladies,  and  I  shouldn't  wonder  if  he  had  got  you  to  convict 
crop  your  hair,  like  his  own,  and  wear  gloves  to  get  your 
hands  white.  Why  should  I  waste  my  time  on  you  when 
you're  not  thinking  about  me?  Perhaps  you  won't  open 
this  letter  at  all;  perhaps  you  will  leave  it  lying  unopened 
on  the  table  ;  I  shouldn't  wonder  a  bit. 

"  I  got  Miss  Patience  to  drive  out  on  a  car  to  the  glen. 
But  it  was  common  daylight,  and  Don  Fierna  and  his  elves 
liad  gone  away  indoors,  and  there  was  nothing  but  grum- 
bling from  the  dear  old  Patience  at  her  having  to  scramble 
down  the  bank  and  scratch  her  hand  with  briers.  She 
couldn't  imagine  why  I  wanted  to  pull  her  to  pieces  like 
that,  nor  could  I  get  Andy  the  Hopper  that  same  afternoon 
to  say  a  word  about  fairies  or  Don  Fierna.  Indeed,  all  the 
neighborhood  became  quite  commonplace.  Inisheen  is  a 
mean-looking,  miserable  hole ;  I  never  saw  such  dirty 
streets  ;  and  the  wretched  tubs  of  vessels  are  lying  not  on 
sand  at  all,  but  on  mud.  I  hated  it — except  one  or  two 
nights  when  the  moon  was  up,  and  I  looked  out  on  the 
cliffs  beyond  the  bar,  and  I  said  to  myself,  '  Well,  now,  if 
my  bonny  boy  were  coming  home  from  these  cliffs  carrying 
with  him  the  wild  pigeons  he  had  been  after  all  the  day, 
perhaps  I'd  like  the  place  a  little  better,'  and,  then,  you 
know,  how  could  I  help  thinking  of  the  night  you  rowed 
me  home  in  the  boat,  and  all  Inisheen  asleep,  and  you  had 
wrapped  me  up  so  tight  in  the  shawl  ?  I  waved  my  hand- 
kerchief to  you  from  the  window,  but  I  daren't  lift  the 
window;  so  you  couldn't  see.  I  watched  you  go  away 
back  to  the  town — the  boat  the  weest  black  speck  on  the 
the  silver  of  the  water.  Dear  me  !  that  I  should  say  any- 
thing against  Inisheen,  that  is  the  dearest  spot  in  the  world 
to  me,  and  hallowed  by  associations  that  memory  will 
never  give  up.  My  dear,  dear  Inisheen  !  My  beautiful 
Inisheen  !  And  will  it  be  moonlight  on  that  same  night 
seven  years  hence  ?  Perhaps  I  shall  not  be  so  frightened 
then. 

"  But  what  I  dread  most  of  all,  Willie,  is  next  Sunday 
morning.  I  know  it  will  be  a  beautiful  morning,  just  to 
spite  me.  And  I  know  liow  I  shall  wait  about  tlie  window 
with  all  my  things  on  long  before  the  time,  and  looking 


SHANDON  BELLS.  55 

over  to  the  clock  of  St.  Anne's  and  wishing  it  would  push 
ahead  and  make  the  single  Shandon  bell  strike  the  half- 
hour.  (Why  did  you  quarrel  with  Miss  Patience,  Willie? 
It  was  so  nice  to  listen  for  your  ring  at  the  bell.)  And 
then  half  past  ten  strikes,  and  out  I  go  ;  and  I  am  certain 
ic  will  be  the  loveliest  morning,  and  the  hawthorn  just 
coming  out,  and  all  the  fresh  air  sweet-scented.  And  no 
one  at  the  corner — the  place  quite  empty — no  trace  of  ^le 
gamekeeperish  young  Apollo  with  the  shy  eyes  and  the  sun- 
brown  locks,  who  used  to  say,  'The  top  of  the  moi-ning  to 
ye,  Miss  Kitty  !  "  and  be  so  modest  and  grateful  for  her 
condescension.  Then  away  she  goes,  all  alone,  past  the 
barracks — but  really,  really  and  truly,  honor  bright,  keep- 
ing her  eyes  on  the  ground  the  ichole  way  until  she  has 
passed  the  walls — and  then  do  you  know  of  a  lane  about 
there.  Master  Willie  ?  Do  you  know  of  a  lane  about  there 
that  you  can  go  along,  and  twist  and  turn  about,  until  you 
get  out  among  hedge-rows,  where  grown-up  children  can 
pull  wild  flowers  and  say  pretty  things  to  each  other?  Did 
you  ever  go  along  such  a  lane  ? 

"  But  you  are  not  listening.  You  are  out  walking  with 
Mr.  Superciliousness,  and  if  there's  anybody  in  the  wide 
world  who  hates  you  with  her  whole  heart,  it's  your  des- 
pised  but  forgiving  Kitty." 

He  looked  at  the  beginning  of  the  letter  again.     . 

"  I'm  glad  it  rained  on  Tuesday,"  he  said  to  himself, 
and  he  thought  that  his  conscience  would  perhaps  absolve 
him  if  he  put  off  his  work  for  a  little  while  to  send  Kitty 
just  as  long  a  letter  as  she  had  sent  him — cheating  the  great 
distance  between  them,  as  it  were,  and  imagining  himself 
talking  to  her  in  the  little  room  looking  over  the  valley  to 
Shandon  tower. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

A  FIRST   CHECK. 


Time  passed,  and  Fitzgerald  grew  very  anxious  about 
not  hearing  anything,  good,  bad,  or  indifferent,  concerning 
the  review  he  had  sent  to  Mr.  Gifford.  He  ventured  to 
mention  the  matter  to  Hilton  Clarke. 


56  SHANDON  BELLS. 

"  Get  it  back,"  he  said,  laughing,  ''  and  put  John  Brown 
into  it." 

However,  if  each  morning  brought  its  little  pang  of  dis- 
appointment, there  was  no  time  for  balancing  hope  and 
fear  during  the  rest  of  the  day  ;  for  now  the  new  magazine 
was  being  pushed  forward,  and  everybody  had  his  hands 
full.  Everybody,  that  is  to  say,  except  the  editor-in-chief, 
who  when  Fitzgerald  called  on  him  and  urged  him  to  come 
down  to  the  Strand  to  decide  some  matter  or  other,  seemed 
much  more  inclined  for  a  lounge  along  Piccadilly,  if  the 
morning  was  fine,  accompanied  by  this  attentive  Telema- 
chus,  who  willingly  listened  to  his  discursive  monologue.  By 
this  time  Fitzgerald  had  got  to  know  something  more  about 
Hilton  Clarke,  and  had  observed,  among  other  things,  that 
he  seemed  quite  incapable  of  denying  himself  any  gratifi- 
cation that  lay  within  his  reach.  No  matter  what  it  was — 
liaving  his  initials  in  silver  on  his  ivory-backed  hairbrushes, 
or  the  purchase  of  an  illuminated  missal  displayed  in  a  shop 
window — the  whim  of  the  moment  had  to  be  gratified,  and 
he  was  careful  to  point  out  to  Fitzgerald  that  he,  Hilton 
Clarke,  had  already  done  a  good  deal  for  Mr.  Scobell  in 
presenting  him  with  the  idea  of  this  new  magazine,  and  also 
to  assign  as  a  reason  for  his  carelessness  or  his  idleness  the 
necessity  of  the  business  people  having  all  their  arrange- 
ments completed  first. 

One  morning  Fitzgerald  went  up  to  the  Albany,  and 
found  his  chief,  with  the  accustomed  cigarette  in  his  hand, 
reading  the  Contes  llemois — or,  more  probably,  and  profi- 
tably, looking  over  the  delightful  little  woodcuts.  He  put 
the  book  aside  as  Fitzgerald  entered. 

*'  Mr.  Scobell  has  made  a  suggestion  that  I  think  very 
good,"  said  the  latter,  after  the  usual  greetings.  "  He  thinks 
you  should  have  for  your  opening  article  a  paper  written 
by  a  lawyer,  some  wellknown  Q.  C,  for  example,  on  the 
terms  of  leases  and  arrangements,  and  the  points  that 
should  be  carefully  looked  after.  '•Points  on  lohich  a  solic- 
itor should  be  corisulted^^  he  suggests.  You  know,  lots  of 
people  enter  into  agreements  about  a  shooting  or  a  house 
that  look  all  right  and  safe,  but  that  may  land  them  any- 
where. ISTow  just  at  the  outset  wouldn't  that  be  rather  ap- 
propriate ?  " 

Hilton  Clarke  looked  at  him. 

"  The  suggestion  is  Scobell's." 

"Yes." 


SHANDON  BELLS.  hi 

"  Well,  you  see,  I  don't  think  it  is  a  bad  one  ;  but  at  the 
outset  it  is  'most  important  for  me,  and  for  you,  and  for 
Dick  Scobell  to  know  precisely  where  we  are.  Now  I  am 
the  editor  of  this  new  magazine,  and  Mr.  Scobell  is  not." 

"Yes,"  said  Fitzgerald,  wondering;  "but  surely  you 
may  take  suggestions  from  anybody  if  they  happen  to  be 
worth  anything  ?  " 

"  From  anybody — except  ray  proprietor,  you  understand 
No,  we  will  get  our  own  idea  for  an  opening  article,  Fitz- 
gerald. Let's  talk  about  something  you  are  more  familiar 
with.  And  I  have  some  news  for  you.  One  of  the  most 
charming  women  in  London,  one  of  the  wittiest  and  one  of 
the  best-iooking,  too,  has  expressed  an  interest  in  you." 

"  Oh,  indeed,"  said  Fitzgerald,  professing  to  be  very 
grateful,  as  in  duty  bound. 

"I  showed  her  your  Woodland  WalJt,  and  she  com- 
missioned me  to  ask  you  whether  the  verses  were  your 
own " 

"  Which  verses  ?  "  said  Fitzgerald,  for  indeed  there  were 
several  little  bits  of  rhyme  cunningly  interwoven  with  that 
gossip  about  birds  and  waterfalls. 

"Why,  those  with  the  refrain,  'The little  ringlets  round 
her  ears.'  Ah,  I  can  see  they  were  your  own.  I  thought 
so  myself.  And  I  was  to  ask  whether  the  little  ringlets 
were  dark  or  golden — golden,  she  guessed." 

FitzgerakrHushed,  and  said,  with  an  indifferent  air,  "  I 
suppose  the  lines  can  apply  to  any  color — pink  as  well  as 
another." 

"  You  won't  tell  us,  then  ?  Well,  it  was  a  pretty  notion 
to  bring  the  refrain  in  at  the  end  of  each  verse.  The  music 
of  it  catches  you.  If  I  were  writing  an  opera,  I  should 
have  one  particular  air  running  all  through  it  ;  cropping 
up  here  and  there,  you  know,  so  that  people  should  get 
quite  familiar  with  it,  and  be  able  to  whistle  it  as  they  go 
home.  You  have  no  idea  how  consoling  it  is  to  some  j)eo- 
ple  to  whistle  an  air  from  a  new  opera  as  they  arc  com  iig 
out.     That  is  a  pretty  refrain  you  have  in  your  verses, 

*  You  hear  the  secret  words  she  hears, 
You  little  ringlets  round  her  ears  ! ' 

Yes,  I  like  it.     The  repetition  is  effective." 

"I  have  been  to  the  lithographer's,"  said  Fitzgerald, 
shortly.     "  The  cover  looks  very  well ;  but  1  have  told  him 


58  SHANDON  BELLS. 

to  try  red  on  a  white  ground.  That  would  be  clearly  seen 
on  the  book-stalls." 

"  Ah,  yes,  no  doubt.  Earp  will  see  to  that,  I  suppose. 
Now,  Fitzgerald,  I  suppose  you  know  very  little  about 
women  as  yet  ?  " 

"  I  suppose  riot,"  said  the  other. 

"I  know  one  thing  that  will  surprise  you  when  you  find 
it  out,  as  I  dare  say  you  will."  He  stretched  out  his  legs, 
and  regarded  the  tips  of  his  fingers— a  favorite  attitude  of 
his  when  he  nacl  got  something  he  liked  to  talk  about.  But 
sometimes  he  regarded  his  companion.  "I  am  quite  con- 
vinced myself  that  there  is  a  large  number  of  women  who 
know  nothing  about,  who  are  incapable  of  knowing  any- 
thing about,  the  romantic  sentiment  of  love.  They  have 
never  experienced  it ;  they  will  never  experience  it ;  and 
when  they  read  about  it  in  books  they  don't  believe  in  it; 
they  think  it  is  only  the  ridiculous  exaggerations  of  a  poet 
or  a  playwright.  They  no  more  believe  what  they  read 
about  the  passion  of  love  than  a  man  with  an  unmusical  ear 
believes  what  people  say  about  Mozart,  or  than  a  man 
whose  eye  is  uneducated  believes  what  is  written  about 
Titian.  But,  mind  you,  these  are  the  women  it  is  safest 
to  make  a  marriage  contract  with.  They  will  honorably 
fulfil  their  part  of  it  ;  make  good  wives  and  mothers ;  and 
be  affectionate  enough  in  a  trustworthy,  patient,  unimagin- 
ative sort  of  way,  without  causing  any  anxiety  or  bother. 
Well,  now,  I  believe  there  are  other  women  who  arc  just  as 
much  the  other  way — who  have  an  absolute  hunger  and 
thirst  for  the  sentiment  of  love,  for  its  dram-drinking,  as 
you  might  say — women  of  an  unappeasable  heart.  If  it  is 
your  bad  luck  to  come  across  one  of  these  at  the  moment 
when  her  affections  are  by  some  extraordinary  chance  dis- 
engaged, she  will  almost  certainly  make  you  fall  i^i  love 
with  her ;  and  then,  mind  you,  so  long  as  you  are  near  her, 
and  keep  her  amused  and  occupied  with  fallings  out  and  rec- 
onciliations and  so  forth,  I  dare  say  she  will  remain  quite 
faithful  to  you.  Oh  yes,  I  have  no  doubt  of  that.  But  if 
you  go  away,  that  is  dangerous.  Her  eyes  will  begin  to 
i"oam  about,  and  her  heart  to  put  out  trembling  little  feelers. 
Of  course  if  you  were  to  marry  her  offhand,  that  might  settle 
It ;  and  certainly  if  she  had  children  she  would  probably 
keep  all  right,  for  she  would  transfer  her  excess  of  affection 
to  them.  But  to  be  left  alone — to  have  this  warm,  gener- 
ous little  heart  of  hers  waiting  to  be  kind  to  somebody,  and 


SHANDON  BELLS.  59 

her  young  eyes  wounding  where  they  look — poor  thing  ! — 
liow  can  she  help  going  and  playing  the  mischief?" 

"  Perhaps  your  experience  of  women  has  been  unfortu- 
nate," said  Fitzgerald,  as  respectfully  as  possible.  It  was 
quite  clear  to  him  that  Hilton  Clarke  had,  perhaps  in  con- 
junction with  the  clever  lady  he  had  referred  to,  been  spec- 
ulating about  the  person  who  had  inspired  the  verses  in  the 
Woodland  Walk — that  is  to  say,  Kitty ;  and  Fitzgerald 
resented  this  harmless  curiosity  as  a  piece  of  intolerable  im- 
pertinence. They  wanted  to  know  whether  her  hair  was 
dark  or  golden  ;  they  had  been  wondering  whether  she  was 
a  placid,  faithful,  unsentimental  good  sort  of  stupid  crea- 
ture, or  a  dangerous  flirt — either  suggestion  seeming  to  him 
monstrous;  and  generally,  as  it  appeared  to  him,  they  had 
been  betraying  a  quite  gratuitous  interest  in  his  private 
affairs.  But  Hilton  Clarke  continued  as  if  he  were  quite 
unaware  of  the  resentment  that  these  generalizations  of  his 
had  provoked. 

"  No,"  he  said,  quietly,  "  I  think  not.  And  I  would 
call  it  observation  rather  tJian  experience.  I  suppose,  now, 
you  have  never  noticed  tliat  a  woman's  eyes  are  always 
wandering?  You  have  never  sat  at  a  table  d'hote,  and 
watched,  for  the  fun  of  the  thing,  have  you  ?  " 

"  No,  I  should  probably  be  attending  to  my  dinner." 

"  Ah,  that  is  it.  That  is  just  it.  If  you  look  at  the 
married  couples,  the  husbands  are  attending  to  their  din- 
ners. It  is  the  women  whose  eyes  are  constantly  on  the 
alert.  You  may  look  at  the  man  as  long  as  you  like,  and 
he  won't  know  anything  about  it ;  but  look  at  the  woman 
only  for  a  second,  and  lier  eyes  will  meet  yours — of  cours^ 
instantly  to  turn  away  again.  Indeed,  I  believe  that  women 
can  tell  when  they  are  being  regarded,  even  when  their  own 
eyes  are  bent  upon  the  table.     It  is  a  kind  of  instinct." 

"  You  seem  to  do  a  good  deal  of  staring  when  you  go 
abroad,"  remarked  Fitzgerald. 

"  No  ;  I  think  not.  But  I  have  tried  the  experiment  a 
few  times.  Oh,  by  the  way,  my  charming  friend  says  I  may 
take  you  to  one  of  her  smoking-parties." 

"  Smoking-parties  ?     Are  there  ladies  there  ?  " 

"  Yes,  of  course." 

"  And  they  smoke  ?  " 

*'If  they  are  inclined  to.  Some  do;  some  don't.  It  is 
Li])erty  Hall." 

'*  And  does  the  charming  lady  smoke  ?  "  said  Fitzgerald. 


GO  S HAND  ON  BELLS, 

timidly.  He  wanted  to  know  something  about  her,  as  sho 
had  wanted  to  know  something  about  Kitty. 

"  Well,  occasionally.  But  she  is  quite  as  willing  to  sit 
in  a  corner  with  you,  and  talk  to  you ;  and  very  so(»n  you 
will  imagine  you  are  listening  to  one  of  the  laughing  ladies 
out  of  Boccaccio.     But  it  is  dangerous." 

"What  is?" 

"  Her  trying  to  keep  those  parties  away  from  Sir  John's 
ears.  She'd  much  better  own  up.  Some  time  or  other  he'll 
come  back  from  Ireland  unexpectedly,  and  there  will  be  a 
row.'' 

"  Sir  John  is  her  husband,  I  suppose?" 

"Yes.  I've  asked  her  to  write  an  article  on  grass 
widows  for  our  magazine,  and  I'll  have  to  see  it  doesn't  set 
Clapham  in  a  blaze — Islington,  rather.  But  we  shan't  have 
many  subscribers  in  Islington." 

"  I  think  I  must  be  oft"  now,"  said  Fitzgerald,  rising. 
"  You  think,  then,  Mr.  Scobel  had  better  not  speak  about 
that  article  to  a  lawyer  ?  " 

"  I  think,  with  Mr.  Scobell's  permission,  I  will  edit  the 
magazine  myself.  And  so  I  am  not  to  take  any  message 
about  the  little  ringlets  about  her  ears  ?  " 

"  Oh,  certahily,  I  told  you,"  said  Fitzgerald,  "that  pink 
was  a  good  color.     Let  them  be  pink,  if  you  like." 

"  Wait  a  bit,"  said  the  other  laughing.  "  You  won't  be 
60  uncommunicative  when  a  certain  bright-eyed  lady  gets 
you  into  a  corner  and  talks  to  you,  and  asks  to  be  allowed 
to  light  her  cigarette  at  yours.  Tliat  is  coming  very  near, 
isn't  it  ?  Good-by.  Oh,  about  that  review :  if  you  are 
anxious,  why  don't  you  call  and  ask  Gifford  about  it  ?" 

"  I  would,"  said  Fitzgerald,  hesitatingly,  "  if  I  thought 
I  shouldn't  be  driving  him." 

"  Oh,  bother  him  !  "  said  Hilton  Clarke,  cheerfully.  "  If 
he  does  not  want  it,  we  can  use  it  in  the  magazine." 

That  parting  touch  took  away  all  Fitzgerald's  resent- 
ment. The  man  was  really  good-natured.  And  even  sup- 
posing he  had  been  driving  his  questions  or  his  surmises 
about  Kitty  a  little  too  close,  might  it  not  have  been 
through  a  really  friendly  interest  ?  Then,  again,  it  was  some- 
thing that  so  great  and  acknowledged  an  authority  as  Hil- 
ton Clarke  had  looked  favorably  on  the  little  verses.  Fitz- 
gerald had  placed  no  great  store  by  them  himself.  He  had, 
indeed,  hidden  them  away  in  a  rambling  sort  of  gossij),  iju- 
agining  that  no  one  but  Kitty  and  himself  would  know  that 


SHA  NDON  BELLS.  0 1 

be  liimself  had  written  them.  And  as  they  had  pleased  tlie 
great  critic,  he  would  write  to  Kitty  and  tell  her.  Had  she 
not  a  sort  of  joint  ownership  in  theni? 

Fitzgerald  had  now  to  return  to  the  Strand ;  and  as  he 
was  walking  along  tliat  tlioroughfare,  it  suddenly  occnrred 
to  him  that  he  would  take  Hiltan  Clark's  advice,  and  call 
at  the  Liberal  Review  office,  and  so  pnt  an  end  to  his  anxiety. 
The  advice  was  well  meant ;  but  it  was  injudicious;  and 
still  more  injudicious  was  Fitzgerald's  choice  of  an  oppor- 
tunity To  go  and  worry  an  editor  about  a  neglected  manu- 
script is  a  mistake  at  any  time ;  but  to  do  so  before  luncheon 
is  pure  madness.  When  the  morning  scramble  of  corre- 
spondence is  well  over,  when  the  frugal  chop  and  pint  of 
claret  have  moderated  the  sceva  indignatio  produced  by  the 
contrariety  of  things,  and,  when,  perhaps,  the  mild  Manila 
and  the  evening  papers  may  be  still  further  inducing  the 
editorial  mind  to  repose,  then,  indeed,  there  may  be  hope 
for  the  anxious  inquirer;  but  not  before.  Fitzgerald  had 
to  wait  some  twenty  minutes  in  the  office,  during  which 
time  there  was  a  constant  passing  up  and  down  stairs  on 
the  part  of  strangers,  whom  lie  regarded  with  considerable 
awe.  Then  a  boy  brought  him  a  message  that  Mr  Gifford 
could  see  him,  and  he  followed  the  inky-fingered  Mercury. 
In  a  minute  or  two  he  was  standing  very  much  like  a  cul- 
prit in  front  of  a  long  writing  table  ;  and  Mr.  Gifford,  who 
was  on  the  other  side,  and  who  looked  impatient  and  troubled 
and  hurried,  was  plunging  to  and  fro  in  a  sea  of  manuscripts. 

"  Ah,  here  it  is,""he  said  at  last.     "  Sit  down.     Glad 

you  have  called.    I  meant  to  write.    Well,  you  see "   He 

looked  over  a  page  or  two,  and  an  expression  of  dissatisfac- 
tion was  very  plainly  on  his  face.  "  Why,  you  seem  to 
liave  found  nothing  in  the  book,  one  way  or  the  other !  " 

If  Fitzgerald  had  had  his  wits  about  him,  he  would  per- 
haps have  remarked  that  that  was  precisely  what  he  had 
found  in  the  book  ;  but  he  was  far  too  disturbed  and  aghast 
at  the  querulous  fashion  in  which  the  editor  spoke  of  the 
article  upon  which  he  had  built  so  many  hopes. 

"No,  I  don't  think  this  wdll  do,"  continued  Mr.  Gifford, 
looking  over  the  pages.  "  I  am  sorry  to  have  given  you 
the  trouble  ;  but  really  you  have  made  nothing  out  of  the 
book.  Surely  tiiere  must  be  something  in  it,  good  or  bad ; 
you  liave  found  it  nothing  but  lukewarm,  like  the  Church 
of  the  Lacedemonians.  There  is  no  flavor  in  what  you 
have  written.     Look  there  !  " 


62  SIIANDON  BELLS. 

Fitzgerald  was  too  agitated  to  think  of  putting  the  Lao- 
diceans  in  their  ])roper  historical  place  ;  he  mechanically 
took  from  Mr.  Gifford  a  printed  slip  which  the  latter  pulled 
off  a  file.  It  turned  out  to  be  a  proof  of  a  bookseller's  ad- 
vertisement ;  and  at  the  head  of  the  column  appeared  the 
contents  of  the  forth-coming  number  of  a  great  Quarterly. 

"Do  you  see  ?  "  continued  Mr.  Gifford.  "  That  article 
about  '  A  New  Novelist '  has  been  called  forth  by  this  very 
book  til  at  you  see  nothing  in ;  and  I  am  told  they  regard 
its  publication  as  marking  a  new  departure  in  English  liter- 
ature." 

"  Then  I  say  that  that  is  most  shameful,"  said  Fitzgerald, 
driven  to  desperation.  "  There  must  have  been  briber j^  or 
personal  influence.  The  book  is  as  weak  and  feeble  as  it 
can  be ;  it  is  a  scandal  to  English  journalism  that  bribery 
of  some  kind  or  another  should  have  got  such  an  article 
written." 

"  How  can  you  tell  ?  "  said  the  other,  peevishly.  "  In 
your  opinion  the  book  is  bad.  Other  people  may  not 
think  so.  And  even  you  don't  seem  to  think  the  book  bad 
enough  to  call  forth  any  definite  disparagement." 

"  It  is  merely  frivolous." 

"And  you  are  even  complimentary  here  and  there. 
Well,  then,  perhaps  you  will  excuse  me  if  I  point  out  some 
things  that  may  be  of  service  to  you.  You  know  you 
ought  to  be  accurate  in  your  quotations  : — 

De  par  le  Boij  defense  a  Dieu 
D^operer  miracle  en  ce  lieu. 

JD^operer  instead  of  defaire  miracle^  and  that  in  so  familiar 
a  quotation, " 

"  But  d'operer  is  right,"  says  Fitzgerald,  hastily  inter 
rupting. 

Gifford  stopped  and  regarded  him. 

"Oh,  is  It?  What  is  your  authority?  I  should  have 
thought  the  old  police  distich  was  well  enough  known." 

Fitzgerald  was  so  anxious  to  justify  himself  that  his 
memory  failed  him  altogether  at  this  critical  point.  Nothing 
but  confusion  met  him  when  he  tried  to  recall  where  he 
had  met  with  that  luckless  couplet.  And  so  Mr.  Gifford, 
turning  from  him  to  the  manuscript,  proceeded  : — 

"  Then  you  introduce  extraneous  matter  for  no  sufiicient 
reason.    You  say  here,  *  One  might  arrive  at  a  sort  of  nega- 


SITANDON  BELLS.  C3 

tive  defiiiition  of  poetry  by  saying  that  it  was  precisely  that 
quality  which,  is  conspicuously  absent  from  every  page  of 
Pope,  and  which  is  conspicuously  present  in  nlmost  every 
line  of  Coleridge.'  Now  what  is  the  use  of  advancing  an 
opinion  like  that?  " 

*'  One  of  the  characters  in  the  book — — " 

"  Yes,  yes,''  said  Mr.  Gifford,  witli  an  impatience  that 
was  scarcely  civil ;  though  it  was  most  likely  he  had  been 
worried  about  something  or  other  tliat  morning;  "but  a 
reviewer  can  not  be  expected  to  set  all  the  opinions  of  all 
the  characters  in  a  book  right.  And  when  you  proceed  to 
remove  Pope  from  the  category  of  English  poets,  you  want 
more  than  a  single  sentence  if  you  would  justify  yourself. 
It  is  not  enough  for  you  to  say  that  such  and  such  a  thing 
is :  you  must  prove  it  to  be  so.  You  can't  go  and  settle 
lialf  a  hundred  disputed  literary  points  in  the  course  of  a 
single  book  notice " 

"  I  am  sorry  it  won't  do,"  said  Fitzgerald,  lifting  his 
hat.  "I  may  as  well  take  the  manuscript  with  me,  if  you 
don't  mind." 

"I  am  sorry  you  have  had  the  trouble;  but  one  must 
learn  reviewing  as  other  things  ;  and  perhaps  I  made  a 
mistake  in  thinking  you  had  had  enough  practice.  There 
are  one  or  two  other  points  I  might  show  you." 

"  Oh  no,  thank  you  ;  no,  thank  you,"  said  Fitzgerald, 
with  great  courtesy  ;  "  I  wouldn't  trouble  you.  I  must  not 
take  up  so  much  of  your  time.  Good-morning.  I  am  very 
much  obliged  to  you." 

And  so  he  got  himself  out  of  the  ofHce  with  all  his  mind 
aflame.  It  was  not  so  much  disappointment  as  indignation 
that  consumed  him — indignation  that  such  a  book  should 
be  made  so  great  a  matter  of,  simply  because  it  was  written 
by  a  member  of  the  government,  by  a  man  in  political  life. 
What  was  the  objection,  then,  to  this  review  but  that  he  had 
not  made  it  violent  enough  either  with  praise  or  blame  ?  If 
he  had  made  of  it  a  balloon,  now,  and  tied  the  worthless 
volumes  to  it  and  sent  them  up  into  the  blue,  or  if  he  had 
made  a  nether  millstone  of  it  and  hung  it  round  Spencer 
Tollemache's  neck  and  plunged  him  in  mid-ocean,  no  doubt 
the  black-browed  editor  would  have  been  charmed.  But 
because  he  had  merely  told  the  truth,  the  review  was  luke- 
warm, like  the  Lacedemonians!  And  defaire  miracle! — 
he  knew  it  was  d'operer  miracle  !  As  for  Pope,  he  declared 
to  himself  that  the  whole "  Essay  on  Man,"  boiled  down 


I 


C4  SJ/ANDON  BELLS. 

and  strained  tlirougli  a  cotton  rag,  would  not  produce  ah 
much  poetry  as  you  could  find  in  a  single  phrase  of  Ilei-rick' 
or  Suckling  s.  And  then  he  devoted  the  whole  art  and 
function  of  criticism  to  the  infernal  gods  :  and  then — in  the 
middle  of  the  Strand,  among  the  hurrying  strangers — ht 
laughed  lightly. 

For  it  suddenly  occurred  to  him  that  to  betray  sucli 
temper,  or  to  feel  so  keenly  his  disappointment,  was  not 
bearing  out  the  character  that  Andy  and  Hopper  had  given 
of  him  to  Kitty.  Was  he  going  to  allow  this  first  bit  of 
misfortune  to  cast  him  down  ?  He  began  to  regard  the 
matter  from  a  common-sense  point  of  view.  After  all,  his 
being  debarred  from  further  hope  of  contributing  to  the 
Ijiheral  Meview  (and  he  liad  to  admit  that  Mr.  Gifford's 
manner  seemed  conclusive  on  that  point)  did  not  necessarily 
doom  him  to  starvation.  And  why  should  he  be  angry 
with  the  ereat  Quarterly,  even  if  it  had  been  unduly  influ- 
enced ?  The  public  would  speedily  put  the  matter  right 
by  leaving  the  book,  if  it  was  worthless,  unread.  Wlien  he 
came  to  think  of  it,  moreover,  there  might  be  some  justifi- 
cation for  Mr.  Gifford's  harsh  censure,  regarding  the  article 
from  the  editorial  point  of  view.  Doubtless  he  ought  to 
have  left  Pope  alone.  He  should  not  have  altered  a  familiar 
quotation  without  being  ready  with  his  authority.  In  fact, 
by  the  time  that  he  had  reached  Ch;iring  Cross  he  had  con- 
vinced himself  that  the  world  was  not  so  much  amiss;  and 
this  gradual  revival  from  his  fit  of  disappointment  did  not 
at  all  stop  there  ;  but  quite  suddenly — and  in  a  manner  that 
seemed  to  fill  all  the  dusky  sunlight  of  the  Strand  with  a 
sort  of  rose-color — it  sprang  to  a  wild  resolve.  What  if  he 
were  to  go  away  back  to  Ireland,  and  spend  a  day  among  the 
hawthorn  lanes  with  Kitty  ? 

He  could  not  resist.  The  rebound  from  that  extreme 
depression  carried  him  away  with  it ;  and  only  the  necessity 
of  havion  to  buy  a  Bradshaw  and  get  some  information  out 
of  that  distressing  volume  succeeded  in  calming  down  this 
bewilding  delight  and  anticipation  that  had  seized  hold  of 
liim.  Yes,  by  taking  the  mail  train  to  Bristol  that  night, 
which  was  a  Friday,  he  could  reach  Cork  on  Saturday  even- 
ing ;  and  then  the  Sunday  morning — and  his  meeting  Kitty 
— and  clasping  her  warm  white  little  hand !  The  whole  trip 
would  cost  little  over  two  pounds:  was  it  not  his  only 
chance  before  the  long  drudgery  of  the  new  magazine  be- 
gan ?    A  hundred  times  over  he  i^ictured  to  himself  Kitty's 


SIIANDON  BELLS.  65 

face  when  she  should  suddenly  see  him  there  waiting  for 
her,  and  each  time  the  expression  was  different.  And  as 
for  reviews,  and  quotations,  and  black-browed  editors,  and 
any  fifteen  dozen  of  Daphne's  Shadows,  he  let  all  these 
things  slip  entirely  away  from  him,  to  bo  lost  in  the  jangle 
and  roar  of  the  mighty  town  he  was  leaving.  He  was  not 
thinking  of  them  at  all.  He  was  thinking  of  Sunday  morn- 
ing and  of  Kitty's  tender  look  of  wonder  and  welcome. 

It  was  about  a  quarter  past  eight  in  the  evening  when 
he  reached  Cork,  and  they  were  just  beginning  to  light  the 
lamps.  There  was  still  a  lurid  sort  of  twilight  in  the 
stormy  purple-blue  sky,  and  the  pavements  were  of  a  wan 
gray ;  but  o-ne  after  another  the  orange  ])oints  of  the  lamps 
declared  themselves,  and  here  and  there  a  warm  glow  shone 
out  from  the  shop  windows.  The  omnibus  rattled  through  the 
town,  past  the  black  groups  of  idlers ;  now  and  again  a 
woman  darting  out  with  an  angry  objurgation  to  snatch  in 
a  vagrant  child.  He  had  been  looking  forward  to  his  pass- 
ing through  the  familiar  streets  as  a  sort  of  dream.  Now  it 
seemed  strangely  real.  Tiiat  sense  of  being  at  home  that 
he  had  never  experienced  in  the  vast  wilderness  of  London 
had  possession  of  him  again ;  the  accent  of  the  people  had 
a  pleasant,  almost  ])athetic,  touch  in  it ;  he  seemed  to  know 
them,  so  well,  to  have  got  back  among  old  friends. 

But  he  was  not  going  to  seek  to  see  Miss  Romayne  that 
night,  wildly  as  his  heart  beat  when  he  thought  of  her  being 
so  near  him — just  over  there  in  the  darkness — little  think- 
ing of  what  was  in  store  for  her.  No  ;  he  would  wait  for 
the  morning ;  he  would  have  nothing  less  than  the  fresh  and 
clear  May  morning  to  show  him  the  sudden,  glad  lovelight 
leap  into  Kitty's  wondering  eyes. 


CHAPTER  VII. 

"  WHEN  ALL  THE  WORLD  WAS  YOUNG." 

Master  Willie  was  up  and  abroad  early  the  next  morn- 
ing— too  early,  indeed,  for  anything  but  a  stroll  through 
the  wide,  empty,  silent  thoroughfares  of  Cork.  It  was  a 
lovely  morning ;  the  sunlight  shining  clear  on  the  tali  fronts 


C6  SIIANDON  BELLS, 

of  the  houses,  and  on  the  deserted  streets ;  a  light  breeze 
from  the  south  bringing  with  it  suggestions  of  the  sea;  tho 
silence  only  broken  by  the  occasional  soft  tolling  of  a  dis- 
tant bell.  Was  it  the  silence  of  this  Sunday  morning  that 
made  the  place  seem  so  strange  ? — for  surely  he  had  not 
been  long  enough  in  London  to  have  forgotten  these  famil- 
iar  streets.  Or  was  the  keen  interest  and  even  affection 
with  which  he  regarded  so  well-known  a  tlioroughfare  as 
the  South  Mall,  for  example,  due  to  far  other  causes?  Sup- 
pose that  as  lie  walked  along  he  did  not  see  this  actual 
sunlight  around  him  at  all;  suppose  that  instead  he  was  im- 
agining these  pavements  swimming  wet  on  a  dark  and  mis- 
erable week-day  night ;  the  cars  rattling  by  and  splashing 
mud  :  and  two  figures  closely  holding  together,  arm  in  arm, 
under  one  umbrella?  And  suppose  now  that  he  sees  one 
of  these  two  look  suddenly  up  to  her  companion  with  a 
quick,  earnest  gaze — a  look  of  revelation,  confession,  com- 
plete surrender  of  love — a  look  that  pledged  her  life  away  ? 
For  even  the  South  Mall,  in  its  canopy  of  darkness  and 
rain,  may  enclose  the  rose-red,  shining  jewel  of  a  love- 
secret. 

So  he  walked  hither  and  thither  to  pass  the  time  away, 
half  dreaming  of  these  recent  days  that  already  seemed  to 
be  growing  distant,  until  he  found  himself  in  the  broad  and 
winding  thoroughfare  of  St.  Patrick's  Street,  where  more 
passers-by  were  now  becoming  visible.  Was  this  then,  the 
part  of  the  Beautiful  City  that  he  had  tried  to  persuade 
Kitty  was  like  Venice  ?  He  looked  at  the  place  with. a  new 
interest  (  comparing  it  with  the  Fulham  road  ),  and  perhaps 
also,  as  he  thought  of  Kitty,  with  a  trifle  of  compunction. 
But  at  all  events  it  was  picturesque  enough — these  masses 
of  tall,  narrow  variously  built  houses  in  all  sorts  of  archi- 
tecture ;  their  slate  fronts,  their  red  brick  fronts,  their 
plaster  fronts,  their  stone  fronts,  their  bow  windows, 
flat  windows,  and  French  windows  all  shining  in  the 
sun,  and  their  uneven  sky-line  sharp  against  the  blue  ;  and 
if  he  did  make  that  bold  comparison  to  Kitty,  no  doubt  he 
pointed  out  to  her  that  they  were  standing  on  an  island ; 
tliat  there  was  actually  water  running  below  the  street ;  the 
street  itself  leading  down  there  to  the  canal-like  Lee,  with  its 
busy  quays  and  boats  and  bridges.  He  looked  at  his  watch — 
it  was  half  past  nine :  would  Kitty  chance  to  have  put  on 
that  pretty  soft  gray  silk  dress  he  was  so  fond  of,  with  its 
touch  of  deep  crimson  here  and  there  ?    Poor  Kitty  :  she 


SHANDON  BELLS,  67 

did  not  know  he  was  down  here  by  St.  Patrick's  Bridge, 
looking  at  the  boats. 

He  crossed  the  river  and  began  to  ascend  leisurely 
enough  the  steep  and  rugged  little  thoroughfare  leading  to 
Audley  Place.  Every  step  had  an  interest  for  him  ;  he  rec- 
ognized every  feature  of  it — the  red  road,  the  white  walls 
hot  in  the  sun,  the  soft  green  of  the  foliage,  here  and  there 
the  golden  tresses  of  a  laburnum  hanging  over  from  a  gar- 
den. And  Kitty  had  to  toil  up  this  steep  ascent  on  the 
dark  nights  going  home — sometimes  getting  wet,  too,  for 
want  of  a  covered  car.  Thr.t  was  because  the  Prince  had 
not  found  his  bag  of  diamonds  yet.  Never  mind ;  the 
world  had  not  come  to  an  end  merely  because  Mr.  Gifford 
did  not  like  the  review  of  Daphne's  Shadow  ;  and  Kitty 
might  have  even  something  better  than  a  covered  car,  all 
in  due  time. 

At  length  he  reached  the  little  terrace  on  the  top 
of  the  hill  that  is  known  as  Audley  Place ;  and  he  passed 
along  to  the  end,  so  that  Kitty  should  not  see  him  prem- 
aturely ;  and  leaned  his  arms  on  the  red  stone  wall 
that  enclosed  a  meadow,  in  the  long  grass  of  which  rooks 
were  loudly  cawing.  How  well  he  knew  the  spacious  pic- 
ture that  now  lay  before  him  ! — of  Cork,  and  its  surround- 
ings, and  the  outlying  country.  The  bulk  of  the  city,  it  is 
true,  lay  down  there  in  the  hollow  to  the  left ;  a  dishevelled 
heap  of  purple  slate  roofs  softened  over  by  a  pale  blue  smoke, 
with  masses  of  dark  green  foliage  farther  up  the  valley,  and  a 
glimmer  here  and  there  of  the  Lee.  But  then  from  the  deep 
of  this  ravine  the  hill  opposite  him  sloped  gradually  upward, 
the  slate  roofs  becoming  less  and  less  dense,  until  in  mid- 
air rose  erect  and  tall  and  square  the  dark  red  tower  of  St. 
Anne's  which  holds  the  Shandon  bells ;  at  the  foot  of  it  the 
little  churchyard, with  its  gray  stones,  and  the  green  and  gbld 
of  grass  and  buttercups  together.  Then,  still  getting  higher, 
the  houses  grow  fewer  ;  the  sunlight  catching  here  and  there 
on  a  white  gable  among  the  gardens ;  the  town  loses  itself 
m  the  country  ;  there  are  lush  meadowns  dotted  with 
sheep  ;  there  are  tall  hedges  powdered  with  hawthorn 
blossoms  ;  there  is  a  farmhouse  half  hidden  among 
the  elms.  And  then,  finally,  the  long,  softly  undu- 
lating sky-line,  brilliant  in  the  sunny  green  of  the  spring- 
time, meets  the  tender  aerial  blue  of  the  morning  sky,  and 
we  reach  the  limits  of  what  is  visible  from  the  red  stone 
wall,  or  even  from  Kitty  Romayne's  window  behind  us. 


63  SIIANDON  BELLS. 

Master  Willie's  heart  was  very  full :  for  there  was  not  a 
wild  thoroughfare  in  that  dusky  city — no,  nor  a  little  by-path 
in  the  suburbs,  nor  a  winding  road  leading  through  the  fair 
green  country  beyond — that  he  and  Kitty  had  not  made  them 
selves  familiar  with  in  their  long  perambulations.  And  Shan- 
don  tower  over  there — how  could  he  forget  the  pretty  speech 
she  made  when  he  had  casually  said  it  was  odd  of  the 
builders  to  have  made  this  one  side  of  it  next  them  red  and 
the  other  three  sides  gray?  "  I  am  going  to  be  like  Shandon 
steeple,Willie ;  and  the  rose-red  side  of  my  love  will  always 
be  turned  to  you  ;  and  other  people  may  think  me  gray  if 
they  like."  Perhaps  it  was  a  trifle  incoherent ;  but  Kitty 
was  not  a  literary  person  ;  and  at  all  events  he  knew  what 
she  meant. 

The  slow  hands  of  Shandon  clock  were  now  invisibly 
drawing  toward  half  past  ten  ;  and  so  he  thought  he  would  go 
round  the  corner  and  await  her  there,  where  their  meeting 
could  bo  observed  by  no  one.  He  paced  up  and  down  by 
this  tall  gray  cheerless  stone  wall ;  and  he  wished  the  villain 
rooks  would  not  make  such  a  cawing.  But  nevertheless  the 
silence  was  sufficient  to  let  him  hear  the  swinging  of  a  gate. 
Then  he  listened,  his  heart  like  to  choke  him.  Then — he 
could  not  tell  how  it  happened — the  world  became  just  filled 
with  a  wild  delight ;  for  here  was  the  identical  soft  gray 
dress,  and  the  pretty  little  figure,  and  Kitty  herself,  who 
was  passing  him  without  looking  up.  But  what  was  this  ? 
Was  she  rying?  Was  she  trying  to  hide  her  face  from  any 
stranger  r 

"Kitty  !— Kitty,  what  is  the  matter  ?  " 

Sb.e  turned  instantly — the  wet  eyes  startled,  her  face 
grown  suddenly  pale ;  and  then,  after  one  second  of  wild 
bewilderment  and  joy,  she  threw  herself  sobbing  and  cry- 
ing into  his  arms. 

"  Oh,  it  is  you  after  all,  Willie  !  I  thought  you  were 
coming  to-day  ;  I  thought  of  it  all  the  morning ;  and  then 
to  come  out  and  find  no  one " 

**  But  how  could  you  think  I  was  coming,  aiy  darling?'' 
he  cried. 

"  Oh,  I  don't  know,  I  don't  know,"  she  said,  almost 
wildly  ;  "  something  in  a  letter,  I  think.  See,  I  put  on  the 
dress  you  liked,  I  made  so  sure — but,  but — oh,  you  have  come 
to  me  after  ail,  Willie ; "  and  with  that  she  kissed  him,  and 
kissed  both  his  hands,  and  kissed  the  sleeve  of  his  coat  half 
a  dozen  times,  holding  his  arm  tight  the  while.     '*  Oh,  don't 


SHANDON  BELLS  if'y^  69 


go  away  again,  Willie !  Don't  leave  nie  again.  I  can  not 
live  without  you — it  is  not  living  at  all.  You  won't  go  away 
again,  Willie  will  you?     We  will  live  on  nothing  rather." 

The  light  that  was  shining  in  her  eyes  as  she  regarded 
him ! 

''  And  they  liaven't  altered  your  looks  a  bit,  Willie — not 
one  bit.  My  bonny  boy  !  Promise  me  you'll  never,  never, 
never  go  away  again,  Willie  !  " 

"  Well,  you  audacious  creature ! "  he  said,  putting 
straight  the  pretty  little  gray  hat  with  its  crimson  feather. 
"  Whose  fiery,  ambition  was  it  sent  me  away  ?  " 

'*  Oh,  but  I've  found  out  my  fault ;  and  haven't  I  cried 
enough  about  it  too?  I  don't  want  any  more  ambition  ;  I 
want  you  Willie;  and  I'd  work  for  you  if  I  were  to  work  my 
fingers  off." 

But  at  this  moment  a  smart  young  corporal,  having 
emerged  from  the  gate  of  the  barracks,  cnine  along  tlie  road 
whistling  *'  Garryowon"  and  twirling  his  small  cane.  So 
Kitty  had  to  dry  her  eyes  and  look  presentable ;  and  slie 
slipped  her  hand  into  her  lover's  arm  and  they  proceeded 
on  their  way — well  known  to  both  of  them. 

"  That  is  a  most  praiseworthy  sentiment,  Kitty,"  he  said, 
m  answer  to  her  proposal.  "  I  suppose  you  would  sing  in  the 
streets  :  and  I  could  enjoy  myself  in  an  ale-house  with  a  long 
pipe — isn't  that  how  it  generally  ends?  But  now  that  I've 
begun,  I'm  going  on ;  and  some  day  or  otlier  Kitty  won't 
have  to  get  wet  through  in  going  home  from  a  concert  at 
niglit " 

"  Oh,  Willie,  that  is  too  cruel !  Did  I  ever  complain  ? 
What  a  stupid  I  was  to  mention  it  even " 

"  Never  mind.  You  see,  I've  got  a  very  fair  start,  Kitty 
four  pounds  a  week  for  a  half-mechanical  land  of  work  that 
will  leave  me  many  chances  of  getting  ahead  in  other  direc- 
tions. And  what  have  you  to  say  now.  Miss  Romayne, 
about  the  person  you  suspected  so  much  ?  I  think  you 
ought  to  be  grateful  to  him.  I  don't  know  any  one  else 
who  would  have  so  gone  out  of  his  way  to  befriend  a  stran- 
ger." 

"  That's  like  you,"  said  Miss  Romayne,  promptly. 
"  You're  too  simple.  My  dearest,  you  think  everybody's 
like  yourself.  Don't  I  see  through  your  fine  friend  ?  Every- 
thing you  have  told  me  in  your  letters  confirms  it.  I  can 
see  it.  The  fact  is,  he  never  thought  about  that  magazine 
until  he  saw  you  at  Inisheen  j  and  then  he  thought  he 


70  SHAN  DON  BELLS, 

could  make  some  use  of  such  an  unusual  combination  oi 
knowledge  of  all  kinds  of  out-of-door  sports  along  with 
literary  genius " 

"  Hillo,  Kitty ;  we're  on  the  line  of  high  phrases." 

"Oh,"  she  said,  coolly,  "if  you  don't  know  what  you 
are,  I  do.  It  was  you  who  gave  him  the  idea  of  the  maga- 
zine— I  will  wager  anything " 

"A  kiss?" 

"  Yes — and  pay  you  now  if  you  like." 

By  this  time  they  had  got  to  the  end  of  Fairy  Lane — 
which  may  be  a  Fairy  Lane  enough  in  certain  circum- 
stances, though  as  a  matter  of  fact  it  has  a  gaunt  stone  wall 
on  one  side  and  a  row  of  commonplace  little  cottages  on 
the  other — and  were  making  their  way  round  by  the  back 
of  the  barracks,  by  rugged  little  roads  and  crumbling  walls 
and  stunted  hedges,  to  the  open  country. 

"I  say,"  continued  Miss  liomayne,  "  that  he  got  the 
idea  of  that  magazine  from  you.  Gratitude,  indeed  !  Where 
else  could  he  have  found  any  one  fit  for  such  a  place? 
Where  else  could  he  have  got  any  one  who  knows  all 
about  hounds,  and  horses,  and  salmon,  and  things  like  that, 
and  who  has  the  education,  and  ability,  and  humor  of  a  de- 
lightful writer  to  make  it  all — all — all  just  delightful?  " 

''  But  wait  a  minute,  Kitty,"  said  he.  "  Are  you  so 
sure  about  all  those  nice  things  ?  I  know  I  can  shoot 
snipe " 

*'  And  you  once  brought  down  a  wild  duck,"  said  Kitty, 
demurely.  "  Crippled  her  entirely — she  couldn't  fly  away 
a  wee  bit  ever  after." 

"  But  I  want  you  to  be  just  to  Hilton  Clarke — but  for 
the  post  he  has  given  me  do  you  think  I'd  be  here  this 
morning  ? — and  I  want  to  assure  you,  Kitty,  that  every- 
body doesn't  regard  my  literary  masterpieces  as  you  do.  I 
told  you  about  the  review  I  had  written.  Of  course  I 
should  have  been  awfully  glad  to  get  an  article  into  the 
Liberal  lleview — even  if  it  had  been  only  three  times  a 
year.     I  never  dreamed  of  such  a  thing  being  possible " 

*'Yes,  but  it  is  possible.     You  told  me " 

"  I  called  on  Mr.  Gifford  on  Friday.  Oh,  he  wouldn't 
have  it  at  all." 

But  Kitty  was  not  the  one  to  be  daunted. 

"  The  more  fool  he !  "  she  said,  with  decision.  Nay, 
she  stamped  iier  little   foot,  and  said :  "  And  if  he  were 


SUA  ND  ON  BELLS.  7 1 

here,  I  would  tell  him  so !  Why,  thesp  old  fosses  are  all 
running  in  grooves " 

*'  But  fossils  don't  run  in  grooves,  Kitty." 

"  And  they  can't  recognize  fresh  talent,"  she  continued 
not  heeding  him  in  her  wrath.  "How  could  they  be  ex- 
pected to  recognize  yours  ?  You  haven't  been  brought  up 
in  libraries  and  inky  dens  all  your  life.  You  have  been 
brought  up  face  to  face  with  the  real  things  of  the  world — 
with  the  sea,  and  the  sky,  and  the  dark  nights,  and  tiie 
winter,  and  all  about  Inisheen  that  you  have  told  me. 
That's  living ;  that's  not  talking  about  living,  or  earning 
your  bread  by  writing  about  what  other  people  have  said 
about  living.  Wiiat  would  Mr.  Gifford  have  done  when 
the  ship  came  ashore  at  Kenvane  Head?  Do  you  think  ho 
could  have  scrambled  down  the  cliffs  to  help  the  fisher- 
men— " 

"  But  his  business  is  to  write,  Kitty " 

"  It  is  not ;  it  is  to  write  about  other  people's  wn-iting," 
she  said,  promptly.  "  Why,  I'd  like  to  have  seen  him^ 
write  that  description  of  that  very  thing — the  struggles  of 
the  fishermen,  and  then  the  captain's  wife  refusing  to  be 
saved  because  her  child  was  drowned.  Would  thei-e  have 
been  any  need  to  cry  if  Ae  had  written  it?  Would  they 
liave  got  w]}  a  subscription  if  he  had  written  it?  No,  I 
think  not.  And  I  should  like  to  see  him  try  to  throw  a 
salmon  line  thirty-eight  yards !  And  do  you  think  he 
could  have  climbed  up  the  face  of  the  Priest's  Rock  with  a 
gun  in  his  hand  ?" 

*'  But  these  things  are  not  necessary  to  the  editing  of  a 
paper,  Kitty."  said  lie,  laughing.  "  And  it's  very  kind  of 
you  to  try  and  find  excuses  ;  but  I  am  afraid  the  truth  was 
that  I  wrote  a  bad  review,  and  Mr.  Gifford  properly  said  no. 
Well,  I  was  very  down-hearted  about  it " 

"You!"  she  exclaimed,  with  a  smile  of  scepticism. 
"  No,  you  can't.make  me  believe  that.  The  tiling  isn't  in 
existence  that  is  likely  to  turn  your  liair  gray," 

"  Unless  it's  you,  yourself,  Kitty  ; — what  do  you  say  to 
that?  But  I  was — entirely  down  in  my  boots;  for  I'd 
rather  see  an  article  of  mine  printed  in  the  Liberal  Review 
than  be  made  Lord-Lieutenant  and  live  at  the  Castle.  And 
then  I  walked  along  a  bit ;  and  then  I  thought  that  the 
hawthorn  must  be  out  about  the  woods  and  hedges  here ; 
and  that  you  would  be  having  your  Sunday  morning  walk 


72  SHANDON  DELLS. 

all  alone ;  and  then  I  said  to  myself,  *  I'm  going  to  seo 
Kitty,  whatever  happens  ! '  " 

"  And  if  it  was  Mr.  Gifford  that  led  you  to  say  that, 
Willie,  I'll  forgive  him  ;  though  I  still  think  him  a  stupid 
person  who  doesn't  know  his  own  interests.  Oh,  I  made  so 
sure  you  would  be  at  the  gate  this  morning !  You  told  me 
last  week  always  to  look  out  for  tlie  unexpected,  or  some- 
thing like  that ;  and  what  do  I  care  to  expect  about  or  think 
about  except  you  ?  I  haven't  had  on  this  dress  since  you 
left ;  I  thought  I  would  keep  it  till  you  came  back.  Miss 
Patience  said  this  morning,  *  Catherine,  why  aro  you  taking 
out  that  gray  dress  again  'i  '  and  I  said,  '  Well,  I  can't  liave 
all  my  things  saturated  with  camphor ;  I  must  take  them 
out  and  air  them  sometimes.'  And  then  when  I  came  out 
and  saw  no  one,  I — I  thought  it  was  too  bad.  I  don't 
know  whether  I  was  angry  with  you^  or  with  myself,  or 
London  and  the  tall  yellow  man " 

"  Now,  now,  Kitty,  none  of  that !  How  can  you  be 
spiteful  on  such  a  morning?  See,  here  is  a  bit  of  haw- 
thorn ;  let  me  pin  it  on  for  you.  I  thought  the  hawthorn 
would  be  out.  The  hedges  over  there  look  as  if  there  was 
snow  on  them." 

By  this  time  their  arm-in-arm  loiterings  and  meander- 
ings  had  brought  them  witliin  view  of  a  spacious  tract  of 
country  that  lay  fair  in  the  warm  and  clear  sunlight.  The 
landscape,  it  is  true,  was  somewhat  marred  by  certain  tall 
chimneys  that  rose  in  the  valley  below,  with  mountains  of 
refuse  hard  by,  and  a  coal-black  railway  line  twisting 
through;  but  there  was  no  need  for  them  to  look  that  way 
unless  they  liked.  Here  on  these  sunny  uplands  were  still 
meadows  all  bestarred  with  daisies,  and  hedges  white  with 
the  fresh-scented  May,  and  over  there  were  softly  foliaged 
woods  all  in  the  tender  green  of  the  springtime.  Then  the 
fair  mansion  on  that  distant  hill — looking  so  white  among 
the  trees  :  had  its  stately  repose  any  attraction  for  youthful 
eyes  and  thoughts  ?  Was  there  any  dream  of  resting  in 
some  such  place,  away  above  the  din  of  the  world,  after  the 
fight  and  stress  are  over?  Or  rather,  were  not  such 
ambitions  quite  imthought  of?  Was  it  not  enough  for 
them  to  have  this  still,  beautiful  morning,  the  sunlight  on 
the  warm  meadows,  the  skies  blue  above  them ;  to  havo 
life,  love,  and  youth ;  a  pressure  of  the  hand,  a  glance  of 
kindly  eyes,  perhaps  a  swiftly  snatched  kiss  where  the 
hedges  were  tall?    For  indeed  the  place  was  so  still  and 


SHANDON  BELLS.  73 

silent  on  this  fair  morning  that  they  were  sucldenly  startled 
by  a  peculiar  silken  whistling  noise  in  the  air,  and  looking 
up,  they  found  that  an  equally  startled  rook  had  just  flown 
over  their  heads,  and  was  already  half-way  across  the  mea- 
dow behind. 

She  stooped  and  picked  a  germander  speedwell  from  the 
bank,  kissed  it,  and  gave  it  to  him. 

"It  is  just  the  color  of  your  eyes,  Willie,"  she  said. 
*'  They  keep  reminding  me  of  you  when  I  am  out  walking ; 
and  oh  !  it  is  so  lonely  walking  now  !  I  have  to  go  over  all 
the  things  you  ever  said  to  me  ;  it  is  my  only  company.  I 
say  to  myself  '  Here  Ave  quarrelled  ' ;  and  again,  '  Here  we 
made  it  up ' ;  and  *  There's  the  stile  he  helped  me  over, 
and  caught  me  when  I  jumped  down' ;  and  '  Here's  where 
tlie  anemones  used  to  grow,  that  he  used  to  put  in  my  hair.' 
Then  on  I  go  again  ;  thinking  of  all  the  nice  love-names  you 
used  to  call  me  ;  and  not  a  human  being  to  say  a  civil  word 
to  one — nothing  but  the  cows  staring  at  you,  and  the  flow- 
ers all  occupied  with  their  own  business  of  drinking  in  the 
sunlight.  And  of  course  every  one  else  you  meet  is  sure  to 
have  a  companion " 

"  Never  mind,  Kitty,"  said  he.  "  You'll  have  plenty  of 
society  in  Dublin ;  you  will  have  half  the  young  oflicers 
from  tiic  barracks  wanting  to  get  introduced  to  you." 

"Oh,  indeed!"  she  said.  "Indeed!  I'd  ask  them  if 
they  had  learned  their  drill  yet ;  and  if  there  wasn't  one 
part  of  it  called  *  Right-about-face.'  But  it  is  very  nice  of 
you  not  to  object  to  my  going  to  Dublin,  Willie.  You  see, 
it  will  be  a  six  weeks'  engagement,  and  for  me  a  six  weeks' 
holiday  as  well ;  and  no  silk  dresses,  or  gloves,  or  music,  or 
bou-juetsto  buy.  And  they  say  the  picture  of  Killarney  is 
quite  lovely ;  and  just  imagine  how  effective  it  will  be — 
the  lights  in  the  theatre  all  down ;  then  the  moonlight  be- 
gins to  show  on  Muckross  Abbey,  perhaps,  or  perhaps  it's 
Innisfallen,  and  all  the  water  begins  to  be  silver,  and  then 
the  orchestra  plays  a  very  slow  accompaniment ;  and  then — 
I  am  going  to  begin  very  softly — you  hear  '  By  Killarney's 
lakes  and  fells,'  sung  somewhere  in  the  distance.  You  must 
imagine  it  to  be  a  voice  in  the  air ;  and  won't  I  do  my  best 
with  it  when  it  is  my  boy's  native  country  that  it  is  all 
about !  Ah  me  !  there  won't  be  anybody  then  to  sing  my 
praises  in  the  Cork  Chronicle.  It  will  no  longer  be  re- 
served for'  an  English  singer  to  reveal  to  the  Irish  people 
+Jie  pathos  of  anything  at  all     No  ;  the  only  one  she  ever 


7d  "; II AN  DON  BELLS. 

cared  to  sing  for  will  be  far  away,  not  thinking  of  her,  but 
having  fine  dinners  in  his  splendid  rooms  in  London." 

He  burst  out  laughing. 

"  My  splendid  room  in  the  Fulham  Road,  Kitty,  is  fur- 
nished with  one  table  and  two  chairs,  and  is  otherwise 
about  as  bare  as  a  billiard  ball.  You  don't  get  much 
splendor  for  six  shillings  a  week." 

"Ah,"  she  said,  shyly,  "if  you  had  only  stayed  in  Ire- 
land you  might  have  had  lodgings  cheaper  than  that." 

"Where?  "lie  asked. 

"  You  might,"  said  she,  very  prettily,  and  with  her  eyes 
cast  down — "you  might  have  'lived  in  my  heart,  and  pjxid 
no  rent.'  " 

However,  not  once  during  this  long,  delicious  ramble 
along  lanes,  and  by  farmhouses,  and  through  woods,  did 
Miss  Romayne  recur  to  that  first  eager  heart-cry  of  hers 
that  he  should  give  up  his  ambitious  projects  in  London, 
and  come  back  to  L*eland.  For  although  she  could  make 
love  very  pi-ettily,  in  a  shy,  tender,  and  bewitching  fashion, 
she  was  nevertheless  a  sensible  young  woman,  and  slie  per- 
ceived that  whether  she  liked  Mr.  Hilton  Clarke  or  not,  he 
was  affording  her  lover  a  very  fair  start  in  London  literary 
life.  No,  she  would  not  ask  him  to  sacrifice  those  prospects 
merely  to  gratify  sentiment ;  but  seeing  that  he  was  here, 
and  seeing  that  merely  to  touch  the  sleeve  of  his  coat,  to 
know  that  he  was  beside  her,  was  the  greatest  delight  in 
the  world  to  her,  her  first  thought  was  how  he  and  she 
could  be  most  together. 

"  When  do  you  go  back,  Willie  ?  " 

"  To-morrow  morning." 

"  To-morrow  morning ! "  she  cried,  and  her  face  fell. 
"  Must  you  ?  " 

"  My  darling,  I  must,  without  a  doubt." 

"  But  this  is  dreadful,  Willie.  Am  I  only  to  see  you 
for  three  hours — and — and  the  three  hours  nearly  over — " 

Her  eyes  began  to  fill,  and  her  lips  to  tremble. 

"  What  do  you  mean,  Kitty  ?  The  whole  day  is  before 
us " 

"There's  dinner  at  two,"  she  said,  with  her  eyes  turned 
aside  from  him,  "  and  there's  church  in  the  afternoon  ;  and 
then  Miss  Patience  will  expect  me  to  stay  in  all  the  even- 
ing; and  how  can  I  see  you?  Three  hours — and  it  may  be 
years  again." 

"  Oh,  but  that  won't  do  at  all,  Kitty,"  said  he,  cheer- 


SHANDON-  BELLS,  75 

fully.  "I  haven't  come  all  this  way  to  spend  a  day  with 
you,  and  have  half  of  it  cut  off.  Not  a  bit.  I  am  going 
to  call  on  Miss  Patience.  I  am  going  to  apologize  for  any 
and  every  offence  that  she  can  think  of — for  I'm  sure  I 
don't  know  what  I've  done.  She  may  draw  up  a  list  aa 
long  as  my  arm — or  as  long  as  her  face,  which  is  longer — 
and  I'll  write  at  tlie  foot  of  it  :  '  Peccam  peccatam  grancle^ 
et  mihi  conscius  muhorum  delictorum,  sed  gratia  Patientia) 
— that's  through  the  favor  of  Miss  Patience,  Kitty — I've 
been  acquitted." 

Kitty's  face  rose  again. 

*'And.  I  think  it  could  be  managed,  Willie,  if  yoi 
wouldn't  mind  being  a  little  considerate.  I  have  founr. 
out  what  made  most  of  the  mischief.  You  printed  a  lette< 
of  hers  in  the  Cork  Chronicler 

"  I  know  I  did  ;  I  thought  she  would  bo  pleased.'' 

"  But  she  sent  it  annoymously." 

"  I  only  appended  her  initials.  I  recognized  the  hand- 
svritmg,  and  it  was  a  sensible  enough  letter.  I  thought  she 
would  be  pleased." 

*'  But  you  don't  understand,  Willie ;  I  must  tell  you 
about  poor  old  Patience,  though  it  is  absurd.  You  see, 
she  takes  a  great  interest  in  public  affairs,  and  thinks  she 
is  in  a  good  position  for  being  an  impartial  adviser — «ot  in- 
fluenced by  interested  motives,  you  understand,  Willie — 
and  so  she  writes  letters  to  the  newspaper  editors  through 
out  the  country,  and  to  the  cabinet  ministers,  and  advises 
them.  She  writes  and  approves  of  what  they've  said,  oi 
she  suggests  things  they  should  do,  and  of  course  some- 
times they  do  do  that,  and  then  poor  old  Patience  is  very 
delightful  to  live  with,  for  she'll  let  you  do  anything  on 
these  days.  But  then  she  believes  that  if  her  name  was 
known,  all  her  influence  in  public  affairs  would  fade  away, 
for  the  public  would  think  he  was  wanting  something  from 
them,  and  so  she  writes  anonymously.  Then  you  must 
needs  go  and  discover  her  secret,  and  put  her  initials  to  the 
letter." 

"  There  was  no  harm  in  the  letter,  Kitty.  It  only  said 
that  on  some  particular  question — I  forget  what — we  were 
the  only  paper  in  the  country  tliat  spoke  the  truth,  and 
every  editor  likes  to  print  letters  like  that." 

"  Then  the  very  next  day,  I  believe,  you  must  needs  go 
and  say  something  about  editors  being  plagued  with  corres- 
pondence, and  that  she  took  to  herself — " 


76  SHANDON  BELLS. 

"  I  wnsn't  even  thinking  of  her,  Kitty  ;  thongli  anything 
more  diabolical  tlian  a  woman  who  spends  her  life  in  tor- 
turing editors  and  cabinet  ministers  with  continual  writing 
to  tliem — " 

"  Whish — sh — sh !  Many  a  pleasant  evening  you  owe 
to  Miss  Patience,  young  man.  So  now  I'm  going  in  to 
dinner.  No,  you  mustn't  think  of  it;  I  will  manage  it; 
men  always  bungle  these  things;  and  if  you  go  and  get 
your  dinner,  and  be  back  about  here  at  three,  I  will  send 
you  a  message  somehow  as  to  how  the  weather  looks. 
Oh,  where  are  you  staying,  Willie  ? " 

"  At  the  Imperial.'' 

"  Sure,  can't  ye  say  the  Impayrial  ?  "  remonstrated  Miss 
Romayne.  "  Very  w^ell  then,  I  will  try  to  send  a  line  to 
you  there." 

"  Is  it  much  use  ?  "  he  asked.  "  I  am  coming  to  spend 
the  afternoon  with  you,  Kitty,  whatever  kind  of  weather 
there  is." 

*'  Go  away  now,  you  headstrong  boy !  You  may  have 
command  over  Don  Fierna  and  his  pixies  in  that  dreadful 
glen,  but  you  don't  know  how  to  manage  a  woman's  temper. 
Good-by,  Willie — oh,  dear  me  how  1  shall  hate  the  ser- 
mon !  " 

''  Good-by,  Kitty.  Tell  Miss  Patience  that  I  know  quite 
well  whose  advice  it  was  that  induced  the  American  gov- 
ernment to  give  up  Mason  and  Slidell." 

He  went  down  to  the  Imperial,  and  got  something  to 
eat.  He  was  not  much  distressed  about  wliat  was  going  to 
liappen ;  he  would  see  Kitty  that  afternoon,  and  that 
evening  too,  despite  all  the  female  diplomatists  in  Ireland 
or  out  of  it.  But  in  about  half  an  hour  any  little  anxiety 
was  dispelled  by  the  following  note,  hastily  scribbled  in 
pencil,  which  was  brought  him  by  a  shock-headed  boy. 

"  My  Dearest, — I  have  moUyfied  \sic\  Miss  Patience, 
She  has  said  you  might  come  to  supper  at  eight.  If  you 
are  about  the  front  of  St.  Anne's  when  afternoon  church 
comes  out,  I  will  go  for  a  little  walk  with  you  ;  but  let  me 
leave  Miss  Patience  first ;  she  would  not  like  an  explana- 
nation  in  the  street.  Shall  you  be  in  the  church  ?  1  will 
look  out  for  you.  Do,  do  be  civil  to  her  to-night. 
*'  Your  very  nmch  obliged, 

"  Catherine  the  Incomprehensible." 


SHANDON  BELLS.  77 

So  thev  had  another  long  and  delightful  walk  in  the 
sunny  afternoon,  though  this  time  they  remained  nearer 
the  city,  visiting  various  spots  that  were  hallowed  by  their 
own  wonderful  experiences,  and  on  one  occasion  standing 
mute  to  hear  the  distant  chiming  of  Shandon  bells.  Kitty 
was  most  interested  in  listening  to  the  smallest  details 
about  his  life  in  London  ;  but  nothing  that  he  could  urge 
could  overcome  her  dislike — or  jealousy,  or  whatever  it 
was — of  Hilton  Clarke.  This  was  the  more  unreasonable 
that  slie  liad  never  spoken  a  word  to  him,  and  had  only 
seen  him  once  or  twice  in  front  of  the  inn  at  Inislieen. 
Even  about  his  appearance,  which  to  ordinary  eyes  seemed 
liandsome  and  distinguished,  nothing  would  please  her.  He 
looked  finical.  He  looked  supercilious.  He  stared  imper- 
tinently. Wasn't  his  high-priest  his  tailor?  And  so 
forth. 

"But  you  shouldn't  say  that,"  Master  Willie  remon- 
strated. "  He  never  said  anything  against  you.  No  ;  he 
was  quite  complimentary.  He  called  you  an  epichorianibic 
trimeter  acatalectic." 

"  I'll  take  that  with  a  little  water,  please ;  it's  rather 
strong,"  she  said,  saucily. 

"  I  wish  you'd  give  over  your  concert-room  slang,"  said 
he. 

"Oh,  slang!"  slie  said,  "Slang!  and  what  was  that 
you  said,  then  ?     Wasn't  that  slang,  or  worse  ?  " 

"  It's  the  d«scription  of  a  verse  in  Horace — a  verse  that 
is  just  as  musical  and  graceful  as  you  yourself,  Kitty,  when 
you  like  to  behave  yourself,  which  isn't  often.  And  if  you 
had  any  gratitude  in  your  miserable  little  soul — " 

"Oh,  thank  you,"  she  said,  snatching  her  hand  away 
from  his  arm.  "Mr.  Impertinence,  that's  the  way  to  your 
hotel.     I'm  going  home." 

But  Kitty's  wrath  was  usually  evanescent;  you  had  but 
to  take  her  hand  and  she  surrendered;  and  so  it  was  that 
they  were  very  soon  climbing  the  steep  little  hill  together, 
with  much  cheerfulness,  in  the  gathering  dusk,  the  while 
Kitty  was  lecturing  her  companion  on  the  wisdom  of  con- 
sideration, and  the  advantages  of  politeness,  and  also  hint- 
ing that,  if  he  ould  but  introduce  the  names  of  one  or  two 
distinguished  political  persons  into  his  talk  that  evening,  no 
harm  would  be  done.  And  as  it  turned  out,  Miss  Patience, 
%vho  was  a  thin,  tail  lady,  with  a  somewhat  dark  face  and 
severe  gray  eyes  that  made  her  look  like  a  hawk,  proved 


7  8  SHAND  ON  BELLS. 

exceedingly  placable.  She  avoided  all  reference  to  the 
quarrel.  She  hoped  he  was  succeeding  in  London.  Then 
Bhe  lit  two  candles  and  put  them  on  the  table  of  the  little 
parlor,  and  drew  down  the  window-blind,  and  rang  the  bell 
for  supper. 

Master  Willie  returned  her  kind  treatment  of  him  with 
liberal  interest.  For  when  the  little  maidservant  had  come 
in  to  lay  the  cloth,  and  when  she  had  placed  thereon  the 
cold  beef,  and  salad,  and  cheese,  and  bottled  stout,  and 
when  Miss  Romayne  had,  in  honor  of  her  guest,  lit  two 
more  candles  and  put  them  on  the  chimneypiece,  then 
they  all  sat  down  to  the  modest  banquet,  and  Fitzgerald 
proceeded  to  inform  Miss  Patience  as  to  what  was  being 
thought  in  London  concerning  some  topics  of  Imperial  in- 
terest. And  he  listened  with  profound  attention  to  her 
views  on  these  wide  subjects  ;  although,  it  is  true,  she  spoke 
with  much  caution,  and  even  mystery,  as  though  she  were 
afraid  of  revealing  secrets.  She  was  anxious,  above  all,  to 
know  whether  the  pnblic  approved  the  line  the  Times  was 
taking  with  regard  to  the  government;  and  also  what  sort  of 
person  the  editor  of  the  Times  was.  Master  Willie  replied 
that  he  had  met  one  or  two  highly  distinguished  literary 
people  in  London,  but  not  the  editor  of  the  Times^  who 
was  no  doubt,  on  account  of  his  position  and  duties,  one  not 
easily  approachable. 

'^  There  again  Sir  Rowland  Hill  comes  in  !  "  exclaimed 
Miss  Patience,  triumphantly.  • 

Fitzgerald  looked  puzzled. 

"  Think  of  how  we  are  indebted  to  him,"  she  continued, 
forgetting  for  the  moment  her  mysterious  manner,  "for the 
diffusion  of  information,  and  for  breaking  down  conven- 
tional barriers !  Nowadays  nobody  has  to  bribe  lacqueys 
to  get  to  the  great  man's  chamber.  The  penny-post  has 
done  away  with  that.  That  is  the  messenger  who  can  not 
be  denied.  The  humblest  in  the  land  can  reach  even  to  the 
throne." 

Gracious  heavens,  thought  Master  Willie,  has  the  woman 
been  writing  to  the  Queen  ?  But  all  the  same  he  agreed 
with  her ;  the  penny-post  was  a  noble  institution  ;  and  if 
she  referred  to  the  editor  of  the  Times^  no  doubt  he  wns 
approachable  that  way.  But  Miss  Patience,  fixing  her  se- 
vere eyes  on  him,  instantly  disclaimed  any  such  allusion. 
No;  she  declared  she  was  merely  thinking  of  the  system, 
and  of  ita  wonderful  advantages  of  communication  between 


SHANDON  BELLS,  79 

humble  people  and  the  great.  Then  she  grew  mysterious 
again  ;  and  began  to  put  dark  questions  to  liim  about  the 
probable  effect  of  a  certain  royal  marriage  then  being  talked 
of,  and  whether  it  was  not  high  time  that  the  voice  of  the 
people  should  be  heard. 

But  the  evening  was  not  entirely  given  up  to  politics  ; 
for  Miss  Patience,  with  the  kindest  consideration,  and  un- 
der the  protest  of  going  to  search  for  some  papers  in  her 
room,  disappeared,  and  remained  absent ;  and  Kitty  went 
to  the  little  cottage  piano  ;  and  lier  companion  was  not  a 
great  Avay  off.  Miss  Romayne,  if  not  a  highly  finished 
musician,  was  at  least  a  sympathetic  player;  and  well  she 
knew  the  airs  which  would  awaken  the  tenderest  associa- 
tions in  her  lover's  heart.  They  were  those  that  ho  had 
listened  to  when  he  and  she  were  idling  away  the  glad 
hours  along  country  lanes,  or  as  they  came  home  through 
Inisheen  in  the  evening,  thinking  of  all  the  things  that  life 
had  in  store  for  them  together. 

"  And  so  the  Irish  people,"  she  said,  letting  her  fingers 
touch  the  keys  very  gently,  "  were  not  aware  of  the  pathos 
of  '  The  Bells  of  Shandon '  until  I  revealed  it  to  them?  " 

"  I  wasn't,"  said  he,  "  and  as  I  was  the  sub-editor  of  the 
Corh  Chronicle^  hadn't  I  the  right  to  speak  in  the  name  of 
the  Irish  people  ?  " 

"  I  wonder  who  first  began  to  make  words  for  these  old 
tunes?  I  suppose  the  tunes  were  in  existence  ages  ago. 
Oh,  that  wasn't  much  of  a  discovery.  Master  Willie ;  be- 
cause everybody  sees  how  the  air  can  be  made  pathetic  if 
you  take  pains  with  it ;  but  what  I  am  certain  of  is  that 
another  bell  song,  '  The  Bells  of  Aberdovey,'  was  originally 
not  a  sentimental  thing  at  all,  but  a  splendid  battle  march 
of  the  old  Britons.  If  this  wasn't  Sunday  evening,  and  if 
I  wasn't  afraid  of  frightening  the  neighbors,  I  could  let  you 
hear  something  with  the  '  The  Bells  of  Aberdovey.'  Now 
there  is  a  task  for  you  :  write  a  war  song  for  that  splendid 
march — a  war  song  with  a  tramp  in  it  and  thunder !  " 

"  Play  '  Farewell,  but  whenever  you  welcome  the  hour,' 
Kitty,"  said  he,  gently.  "  You  remember  you  sung  it  in 
the  boat  coming  back  to  Inisheen  ?  " 

"  Do  I  remember  ?  Am  I  ever  likely  to  forget  that  fear- 
ful night,"  said  she,  "  when  I  signed  my  soul  away  to 
witches  in  the  moonlight  ?  " 

But  she  played  the  air,  nevertheless,  very  exquisitely 
and  softly.     And  she  played  many  more,  wandering  from 


80  SHANDON  BELLS. 

one  to  the  other,  while  he  listened  in  silence  and  dreamed 
over  again  the  mornings,  and  the  clear  days,  and  the  silent 
twilights  they  had  spent  so  happily  together.  And  well 
she  knew — for  she  also  had  a  tender  memory — that  how- 
ever familiar  these  airs  might  be  to  others,  there  was  no 
commonplaceness  about  them  for  him.  She  played  one 
and  then  another,  but  it  seemed  as  if  they  were  all  speak- 
ing of  the  sea,  and  of  Inisheen,  and  of  glad  days  gone  by. 
These  two  were  together  so  close  now,  the  world  shut  out 
and  forgotten.  Why  should  there  be  any  cruel  gray  dawn, 
and  a  wide  gray  sea,  and  then  a  disapi^earance  into  the 
frightful  loneliness  of  London  ? 

But  the  parting  had  to  come,  nevertheless,  out  there  by 
the  little  gate,  under  the  stars.  Kitty  was  crying  a  little 
bit.  What  was  the  use  of  his  coming  over  for  one  day, 
only  to  have  all  the  old  sorrow  to  go  through  again?  And 
then  he  chid  her  gently.  Had  it  not  been  a  long,  happy, 
idyllic  day — something  to  look  back  upon,  perliaps,  for 
years?  Was  it  not  enough  that  even  now,  under  the  clear 
shining  stars,  he  could  hold  her  warm  little  hands  for  yet 
one  other  minute,  and  listen  to  the  smooth  and  tender  voice 
that  he  knew?  Perhaps  Kitty  would  rather  not  have  him 
come  back,  then  ? 

"Oh  yes,  oh  yes,"  the  faltering  voice  said,  and  she  drew 
him  closer  to  her.  "  Never  mind  about  tlie  excuse,  Willie. 
To-morrow- — Wednesday — next  week — any  day,  any  hour, 
come  back  to  me !  That's  all  I  want !  And  it  isn't  so 
much ;  and  other  people  seem  to  have  everything  they  want ; 
and  they  are  not  nearly  as  grateful  as  I  should  be.  Ah, 
must  you  really  go  ?  " 

But  the  last  word  took  a  long  while  in  saying  ;  and  even 
after  she  had  given  him  the  last  kiss,  and  the  last  blessing, 
and  when  she  had  watched  him  disappear  away  into  the 
darkness  of  the  night,  she  still  stood  by  the  little  gate  there, 
trying  in  vain  to  dry  her  eyes  before  going  into  the  house 
again,  and  wondering  why  fate  should  be  so  cruel  to  some, 
while  others  were  so  happy. 


SIIAN  J  ON  BELLS.  81 

CHAPTER  VIII. 

TN   LONDON   AGAIN. 

At  length  the  fateful  day  arrived  for  the  issuing  to  thQ 
British  pr.blii.  ot  the  first  number  of  the  new  magazine, 
anil  Fitzgerald  was  glad  to  be  able  to  draw  a  long  breath 
of  relief.  During  these  past  two  or  three  weeks  his  labors 
had  been  indeed  hard.  He  had  been  constituted  a  sort  of 
intermediary  between  the  managerial  and  the  editorial  de- 
Dartments,  everybody  wanting  to  hold  him  responsible  for 
everything. 

"Mr.  Fitzgerald,"  the  distressed  manager  would  say, 
bringing  him  the  proof  of  an  article  written  by  the  editor, 
"dolook  here,  if  you  please.  'The  vile  decoctions  being 
continually  invented  and  supplied  to  the  public  in  the  shape 
of  effervescing  drinks.'  '"* 

"  Well  ?  "  said  Fitzgerald,  on  that  particular  occasion. 
«  Why  not  ?     Where's  the  haitii  ?  " 

"  We've  fifteen  different  firms,"  cried  the  manager, 
almost  in  despair,  "advertising  their  effervescing  drinks  and 
mineral  waters." 

"  They  must  imagine  sporting  people  to  be  a  thirsty 
race,"  said  Fitzgerald,  laughing.  "Very  well,  I'll  get  Mr. 
Clai-ke  to  titke  the  phrase  out,  if  it's  likely  to  hurt  anybody." 

Then  again  Mr.  Scobell  would  call  in  some  morning, 
perhaps  with  ^l  proof  of  the  same  article  in  his  hand. 

"  Look  here,  Fitzgerald  —  look  here,  my  dear  f 'lah. 
This  vvih  t  do  at  all.  You'll  shock  the  public  :  I  tell  you 
you'll  ^hock  the  public.  Look  at  this  :  '  That  numerous 
aad  miportant  section  of  the  British  wealthier  classes  who 
Lave  long  ago  given  up  the  fear  of  God,  but  who  are  kept 
A\  pretty  fair  social  order  by  the  fear  of  gout.'  It  won't 
do,  Fitzgerald  ;  I  tell  you  it  won't  do.  You  must  ask 
Clarke  to  cut  that  out.  I  told  him  I  wouldn't  have  any 
d d  atheistical  Radical  stuff  in  a  paper  I  was  responsi- 
ble for.  I'm  not  going  into  society  as  the  proprietor  of  a 
d d  Radical  and  atheistical  journal." 

But  this  was  a  far  more  serious  matter ;  Jar  if  Hilton 
Clarke  were  to  know  that  Mr.  Scobell  had  bet  q  furnished 
■wilh  proofs  of  the  articles,  or  had  expressed  yuy  opinion 


82  SHANDON  BELLS. 

about  them,  tliere  would  be  the  very  mischief  to  pay.  So 
Master  Willie  had  to  assure  the  capitalist  that  the  most 
perverse  ingenuity  could  not  discover  a  trace  of  atheism 
or  Radicalism  in  any  one  of  the  contributions  that  had  been 
written  for  i\\q  Iloicsehold  Magazine;  that  Hilton  Clarke 
would  be  pei-fectly  astonished  to  hear  of  any  such  charge 
being  brought  against  him ;  but  at  the  same  time,  if  there 
was  a  chance  of  any  stupid  person  being  offended  by  this 
chance  remark  of  Hilton  Clarke's,  no  doubt  he,  Clarke, 
would  at  once  remove  it. 

Then  he  w^ould  go  up  to  the  Albany,  and  make  some 
casual  suggestions  in  as  pleasant  a  way  as  he  could. 

"Well,  you  see,  Fitzgerald,"  Hilton  Clarke,  said, 
promptly,  in  answer  to  these  timid  proposals,  "  I'm  not 
going  to  edit  the  magazine  in  the  interests  of  the  advertis- 
ing department.  "  They'll  want  us  to  puff  pianos  next, 
and  write  reviews  of  window  curtains.  And  what  idiot 
could  be  offended  by  a  little  joke  like  that  ?  We  can't 
write  down  to  the  microcephalous.  Where  are  you  going 
now?" 

"  I  am  going  to  have  some  luncheon,  I  think." 
"  Ah,"  said  the  chief,  regarding  him,  "  I  suppose  you 
can  afford  to  do  that  now.  But  it  is  not  wise.  Nothing 
BO  certainly  destroys  the  figure  in  time.  I  don't  know  how 
many  years  it  is  now  since  I  gave  it  up  :  nothing  between 
eleven  and  eight  is  my  rule.  Oh,  by  the  way,  can  you  help 
mc  ?  Have  you  sufficient  ingenuity  to  suggest  the  kind  of 
present  one  might  buy  for  a  lady — well,  how  am  I  to  ex- 
plain it?  Something  that  will  not  be  merely  for  vulgar 
use — such  as  she  would  have  to  buy  in  any  case  ;  and  yet, 
on  the  other  hand,  something  pretty  that  would  not  attract 
too  much  attention  as  a  gift. 

"  I  don't  quite  understand,"  said  Fitzgerald. 

"  It  is  difficult  to  define,"  said  the  other,  absently.  ''  I 
have  been  puzzling  over  it  myself.  I  daren't  give  her  a 
piece  of  jewelry,  for  that  would  provoke  question.  And 
of  course  I  wouldn't  give  her  a  piece  of  furniture,  or  cost- 
ume, or  anything  she  would  buy  in  the  ordinary  course 
with  her  husband's  money.  That's  the  difficulty,  and  I 
can't  hit  on  the  juste  milieu.  It  must  be  ornamental 
enough  for  a  gift,  and  yet  something  she  might  have 
bought  for  herself " 

"  What  about  a  cigar  case  ?  "  said  Master  Willie,  at  a 
venture. 


SHANDON-  BELLS.  83 

The  other  laughed. 

"  Very  well  hit.  You're  not  far  from  the  mark.  But 
I  think  a  cigar  case  would  not  precisely  have  the  effect  of 
Btaving  off  awkward  questions.  Well,  if  you  are  going  to 
lunch,  ta-ta.  Be  prudent,  and  you'll  be  thankful  at  forty 
that  you've  still  got  a  waist." 

Now  Hilton  Clarke  had  a  vein  of  light  facetiousness  in 
his  nature,  and  but  little  satire ;  moreover,  he  was  good- 
natured  in  a  selfish  and  indolent  sort  of  way.  But  he 
never  nearer  reached  a  sharp  satirical  stroke  than  when  he 
advised  this  poor  lad,  who  was  on  the  verge  of  starvation, 
not  to  destroy  his  figure  by  overeating  and  drinking.  The 
fact  was  that,  despite  the  most  rigid  economies,  Fitzgerald's 
worldly  wealth  was  reduced  to  a  sum  of  a  few  shillings, 
and  that  was  slowly  diminishing.  The  Irish  trip  had  cost 
nearer  three  than  two  pounds.  His  father  had  written 
asking  for  two  pounds  more  to  make  up  the  money  to 
meet  the  bill,  and  he  had  got  it.  Then  on  the  remainder 
Fitzgerald  had  continued  to  exist,  if  not  to  live,  during 
these  past  three  weeks  an^  more.  He  gave  up  his  only 
luxury — that  single  glass  of  ale  with  his  dinner.  The 
amount  of  walking  he  did  was  incredible  ;  for  he  had  much 
hurrying  to  and  fro,  and  he  would  not  take  an  omnibus. 
The  luncheon  that  Hilton  Clarke  had  warned  him  against 
generally  consisted  of  a  biscuit,  with  sometimes  an  apple. 
And  he  had  given  up  going  in  to  see  his  artist  friend  John 
Ross,  because  he  could  not  ask  him  in  return  to  a  banquet 
of  tinned  meat,  bread,  and  beer. 

His  salary  having  begun  four  weeks  before,  the  House- 
hold Magazine  now  owed  him  a  sum  of  £16 ;  and  if  that 
money  had  been  in  the  hands  of  Mr.  Silas  Earp,  or  owing 
to  him  by  the  proprietor,  Mr.  Scobell,  he  would  not  have 
had  the  slightest  hesitation  in  making  application  for  it. 
But  somehow  or  other — he  could  not  himself  strictly  analyze 
the  feeling — it  was  impossible  for  him  to  go  and  ask  for 
the  money  from  Hilton  Clarke,  in  whose  hands  he  under- 
stood it  was.  He  was  certain  that  if  Clarke  knew  he  was 
in  want  of  it,  he  would  have  it  at  once.  No  doubt  it  was 
owing  to  mere  carelessness  that  he  had  not  had  it  already. 
And  to  go  and  confess  his  need  of  it:  would  not  that  be 
almost  like  bringing  a  charge  of  want  of  consideration 
against  one  who  had  greatly  befriended  him  ?  There  may 
have  been  a  little  pride  mixed  up  in  this  feeling,  an  indis- 
position to  confess  that,  having  scarcely  a  penny  left  in  the 


84  SHANDON  BELLS, 

world,  he  could  not  write  home  to  his  own  people  for  sup- 
plies. But  the  chief  notion  he  had  was  undoubtedly  that 
such  an  appeal  would  cause  Hilton  Clarke  to  be  vexed 
about  his  own  thoughtlessness:  and  Fitzgerald  was  a  trifle 
sensitive  himself,  and  did  not  like  the  thought  of  giving 
that  pain  to  any  one  else.  And  so  he  contentedly  trudged 
all  over  London  (the  printing-oflices  were  in  the  City  Road) 
instead  of  taking  omnibuses,  and  he  lived  on  next  to  no- 
thing, and  gave  up — but  this  was  hard — his  nightly  chat 
witli  Ross,  rather  than  make  an  application  that  would 
cause  Hilton  Clarke  to  accuse  himself  of  inconsiderateness. 
This  conduct  may  havje  been  Quixotic ;  the  only  sure 
thing  about  it  was  that  it  could  not  go  on  forever.  Tliat 
small  stock  of  jealously  guarded  shillings  grew  fatally  smaller 
and  smaller. 

On  the  afternoon  of  the  day  on  which  the  Household 
Magazine  was  finally  issued,  Hilton  Clarke,  Fitzgerald, 
Silas  Eai*p,  and  Mr.  Scobell  left  London  by  one  of  the  after- 
noon boats  for  Greenwich,  to  dine  there  at  the  invitation 
of  the  last  named.  It  was  not  merely  the  prosj)ect  of  liav- 
ing  for  once  a  substantial  dinner  that  put  Master  Willie  in 
good  spirits.  They  were  all  in  good  spirits.  So  far  as 
could  be  judged,  the  new  venture  promised  to  be  successful. 
The  quantity  of  advertisements  that  had  been  secured  was 
remarkable.  The  "  trade "  had  subscribed  liberally  for 
the  first  number  ;  in  fact,  the  last  thing  that  had  to  be  done 
before  they  went  down  to  Charing  Cross  was  to  send  word 
to  the  City  Road  to  print  a  further  five  hundred  copies. 
The  poster,  scarlet  letters  on  a  white  ground,  was  effective; 
it  was  conspicuous  on  the  hoardings  they  passed.^  and, 
needless  to  say,  they  looked  out  for  it.  Mr.  Scobell  talked 
as  if  the  whole  scheme  had  been  his  own,  and  pooh-poohed 
his  manager's  cautious  reminders  to  the  effect  that  the  ad- 
vertisers wei'e  always  willing  to  patronize  a  first  number, 
and  that  the  sale  could  not  be  even  approximately  gauged 
until  they  began  to  get  back  the  "returns."  The  capita- 
list would  not  hear  of  any  such  qualifications.  He  was 
assured  of  success.  The  richer  section  of  the  public  could 
not  fail  to  see  what  an  invaluable  manual  this  would  make. 
Even  with  a  moderate  sale,  the  margin  of  profit  at  a  shil- 
ling would  be  large.  And  so  he  paid  for  all  their  tickets 
to  Greenwich. 

Fitzgerald  had  not  been  down  the  Thames  before,  and 
to  him  it  was  a  wonderful  and  a  beautiful  sight,  the  sum^ 


SHANDON  BELLS,  85 

mer  atternoon  shining  warm  on  the  masses  of  sliipping,  oa 
tlie  gray  tower,  on  the  surging  stream.  And  then  Avhen 
they  reached  Greenwich  and  the  hotel  there,  and  when  be 
went  out  on  to  the  balcony  of  the  little  private  room, 
there  was  something  that  was  more  than  beautiful  in  the 
sunset  streaming  along  the  wide  reach  of  the  river.  There 
was  a  touch  of  the  pathetic  in  it.  That  very  wideness 
suggested  the  nearness  of  the  sea.  And  was  not  the  sea 
the  great  bond  of  association  with  those  who  were  far 
away?  He  thought  of  Inisheen,  and  that  seemed  sad;  for 
now  there  would  be  no  Fairy  Frigate — that  was  the  fanci- 
ful name  that  Kitty  had  given  to  the  boat  he  and  she  used 
to  go  out  to  row  in — there  would  be  no  Fairy  Frigate 
gliding  over  the  golden  waters,  with  the  blades  of  the  oars 
shining  in  the  sunlight  as  they  dipped  and  rose  again.  Can 
not  you  take  her  a  message,  then,  you  wide  rushing  waters, 
and  you,  great  ships,  floating  down  with  the  dying  day  ? 
Alas  !  the  distance  is  too  great ;  she  is  so  far  away  she  can 
not  hear ;  and  there  is  one  whose  heart  is  so  full  of  the 
thought  of  her,  and  so  burdened  with  the  sadness  of  being 
remote  from  her,  that  he  has  not  much  of  a  mind  for  the 
festivities  to  which  he  is  summoned  within.  A  hand  is 
laid  on  his  shoulder. 

"  Twenty  pounds  that  I  can  tell  you  what  you  are 
thinking  of  !  "  says  Hilton  Clarke. 

Master  Willie  starts  up  from  his  reverie. 
"  She  looks  like  a  Norwegian,"  he  says,  "  the  bark  there 
ivith  the  green  hull.'* 

And  yet,  after  all,  when  they  had  sat  down  to  the  very 
elaborate  feast  prepared  within,  and  when  their  host  was 
descanting  on  the  merits  of  one  or  two  of  the  wines  he  had 
ordered,  the  humor  of  the  situation,  so  far  as  he,  that  is, 
Fitzgerald,  was  concerned,  could  not  escape  him.  It  seemed 
to  him  that  all  the  dinners  he  had  not  had  for  the  past  month 
were  now  being  offered  him,  when  he  could  make  no  use  of 
them.  It  looked  ridiculous  that  one  who  had  been  living 
on  next  to  nothing  should  find  himself  able — nay,  con- 
strained— to  send  away  dish  after  dish  only  tasted,  when 
tasted  at  all. 

"  To-morrow,"  he  said  to  himself,  "  when  I  shall  be  feel- 
ing myself  very  hollow  about  two  o'clock,  I  shall  be  saying, 
*  What  a  fool  I  was,  then,  not  to  have  had  some  more  of 
that  turbot ! '  This  wine,  now.  Twelve  shillings  a  bottle, 
I  suppose.     Six  glasses  to  the  bottle,  probably :  two  shil- 


86  SHANDON  BELLS, 

lings  a  glass.  I  drink  it ;  and  I  have  drank  what  would 
have  kept  me  in  beer  for  a  week.  There  is  something  wrong 
about  the  constitution  of  the  human  organism.  When  you 
can  get  plenty  to  eat  and  drink,  you  ought  to  be  able  to  lay 
in  a  store  against  future  need.  What  is  the  use  of  all  this 
to  me,  if  I  am  to  be  hungry  again  to-morrow?" 

"  Well,  now,  gentlemen,"  said  he  of  the  red  face  and 
bristly  yellow-white  whiskers,  as  he  held  up  a  glass  of  wine 
between  him  and  the  light,  and  then  put  it  on  the  table 
again,  "  I  did  not  ask  you  to  come  to  Greenwich  to  talk 
business ;  but  I  think  we  are  entitled  to  congratulate  our- 
selves all  around — I  do,  really.  I  say  it's  a  deuced  good- 
looking  periodical  we've  turned  out.  I  call  it  a  respectable- 
looking,  a  gentlemanly  sort  of  looking  magazine.  I'm  not 
ashamed  of  it.  I'm  not  ashamed  to  have  it  lying  in  my 
drawing-room,  and  when  any  one  comes  in  I'm  not  ashamed 
if  they  take  it  up.  What  I  say  is,  give  a  good  thing,  and 
charge  a  good  price.  I  think  twelve  shillings  is  too  much 
for  this  champagne,  as  I  tell  ye  ;  but  I  consider  it's  as  good 
a  glass  of  wine  as  any  I've  got  in  my  own  cellar,  and  so  I 
don't  grumble.  I'm  for  having  good  things.  Give  people 
good  things,  and  they'll  pay.  A  shilling  a  week  is  a  good 
lot ;  but  it  looks  respectable  to  have  a  thing  like  that  lying 
about ;  it  looks  as  if  you  wanted  a  country  house  or  a  steam- 
yacht,  and  were  looking  out.  My  wife  had  it  lying  in  her 
drawing-room  yesterday  when  Lady  Ipswich  called  ;  and 
Lady  Ipswich  said  she'd  order  it  from  her  bookseller  at 
once.  Now  that's  what  I  like :  I  want  to  have  it  talked 
about  in  sassiety.  And  I  hope,  Clarke,  your  friend  Gifford 
will  give  us  a  flaming  article  about  it  I'd  have  asked  him 
to  come  down  to-day,  but  I  thought  we'd  better  be  private. 
I  suppose  you'll  drop  him  a  line  !  " 

''Mr.  Gifford,"  said  Hilton  Clarke,  with  a  slight  em- 
phasis on  the  ''  Mr. ,"  "  is  peculiar.  It  would  be  better  to 
leave  him  to  discover  the  extraordinary  merits  of  the  shil- 
ling's worth  for  himself.  Oh,  talking  of  discoveries,  Fitz 
gerald,"  he  added  turning  to  his  neighbor,  "  did  you  read 
the  review  of  Daphne's  Shadow  ?  " 

Fitzgerald,  with  a  sudden  flush,  admitted  that  he  had: 
but  Hilton  Clarke,  not  perceiving  his  embarrassment,  or 
whatever  it  might  have  been,  laughed  lightly. 

"  That  was  the  Liberal  Review  all  over.  The  most  por- 
tentous discoveries !     The  well-known  this    and  the  well- 


SHANDON  BELLS.  87 

known  that  under  thin  disguises ;  a  wonderful  study  of 
contemporary  life  and  society  in  England '' 

"  Then  have  you  read  the  book  ?  Do  you  think  it  is 
trumpery ?"  said  Fitzgerald,  eagerly;  he  was  so  anxious 
to  justify  himself  to  himself. 

"  The  book !"  said  Hilton  Clarke,  with  a  sort  of  good- 
natured  scorn.  "  To  call  such  a  thing  a  book  !  Twopence- 
halfpenny  worth  of  persiflage ;  the  rest  of  the  coppers  in 
cheek :  then  throw  in  a  few  allusions  to  current  politics : 
and  the  British  public  will  take  your  mere  nnmes  as  types 
of  English  character.  What  Gifford  will  do  about  our 
magazine  it  is  impossible  to  say.  He  may  think  it  trivial : 
he  may  regard  it  as  the  servant  of  Mammon,  and  he  is  not 
too  well  affected  toward  the  rich.  But  one  can't  say. 
He  may  make  a  discovery  about  it :  about  the  possibility 
of  converting  fox-hunters  to  the  study  of  higher  things — 
who  knows  ?  And  then  when  he  gets  into  a  tempest  of 
conviction,  he  rides  the  whirlwind.  He'd  hang  you  in  a 
minute  to  prove  to  you  the  impolicy  of  capital  punishment.'* 

AVell  human  nature  is  but  human  nature,  after  all : 
and  it  is  possible  that  Fitzgerald,  after  that  rejection  of 
his  anxiously  written  article,  may  not  have  been  so  quick 
as  he  would  otherwise  have  been  to  resent  these  scornful 
taunts  that  Hilton  Clarke  occasionally  directed  against  the 
Liberal  Review  and  its  editor.  But  none  of  these  affected 
Master  Willie's  secret  conciousness  that,  if  the  two  ways  of 
regarding  human  life  were  offered  him  as  alternatives,  he 
would  rather  have  that  of  the  Liberal  Iteview  than  that  of  the 
Weekly  Gazette.  The  most  desperate  thing  in  the  world 
seemed  to  him  to  be  hopelessness.  Your  conviction  might 
be  wrong,  but  at  least  it  gave  you  something  to  look  for- 
ward for.  And  at  twenty-three  one  is  busier  with  the  fu- 
ture than  the  past. 

The  evening  went  on  pleasantly  enough,  and  coffee  and 
cigars  did  not  tend  to  diminish  that  halo  of  success  which 
already  seemed  to  surround  the  new  magazine.  Indeed,  so 
satisfied  was  Mr.  Scobell  with  the  gentlemanly  appearance 
of  the  periodical,  and  with  his  own  relations  to  the  enterprise, 
that  he  broadly  hinted  his  intention  of  sharing  any  great  in- 
crease of  prosperity  with  these  coadjutors  of  his. 

"  I  am  not  a  money-grubber,"  said  he,  leaning  back  in 
his  chair  to  watch  the  smoke  ascend.  "  I  don't  worship  the 
golden  calf.  I  like  to  have  plenty  of  money ;  and  I  have 
plenty  of  money '• 


88  SHANDON  BELLS. 

"  I  wish  some  more  of  us  could  say  as  much,"  said  }filton 
Clarke  ;  but  the  remark  was  an  unfair  one,  for  Mr.  Scobell 
was  not  really  boasting  of  his  wealth. 

"  I  was  going  to  say,"  continued  the  capitalist,  glancing 
at  Clarke  somewhat  reproachfully,  ''that  I  have  plenty  of 
money  because  I  am  not  an  extravagant  man.  I  think  when 
a  man  has  a  thorough  well-managed  establishment  in  town, 
a  good  cook  and  a  good  cellar,  a  couple  of  hacks  for  the 
Park,  a  barouche  for  his  wife,  and  then,  don't  you  know,  a 
snug  little  place  in  the  country,  where  he  can  keep  a  good 
glass  of  wine  for  his  friends,  and  give  them  a  day  through 
the  turnips,  or  a  mount  if  they  are  hunting  men,  don't  you 
know,  I  say  he  should  be  content,  and  not  want  to  win  the 
Derby,  or  have  the  biggest  deer  forest  in  Scotland.  I  haven't 
gone  into  literature  to  make  money,  not  I.  What  I  sav  is, 
if  it  is  a  big  success,  let  them  share  it  who  made  it ' 

"  Then  Fitzgerald  should  have  three-fourths,"  said  Hilton 
Clarke,  with  a  laugh,  *'  for  he  has  done  three-fourths  of  the 
work." 

"  I  don't  say  I  wouldn't  take  a  fair  return  for  my  money," 
said  Mr.  Scobell,  grandly.  "I  don't  say  that.  But  when 
I  go  into  literature,  it  isn't  to  make  money.  I  want  to  have 
my  name  connected  with  a  thorough  good  thing.  I  don't 
want  to  go  into  my  club  and  hear  men  say,  *  That's  Scobell ; 

he's  the  proprietor  of  a  d d  low  Radical  print.'     I  say 

we  should  stick  up  for  our  own  country.  I  don't  see  any 
better.  If  there's  a  country  where  you'll  find  better  fight- 
ing men,  and  handsomer  women — ay,  and  horses  too — well, 
I  don't  know  where  it  is.  I  think  we  are  very  well  off.  You 
can  get  the  best  of  everything  in  London,  if  you'll  only  pay 
a  fair  price  for  it.  Look  at  Covent  Garden,  now ;  what  is 
there  you  can't  get  there?  And  then  you  get  a  lot  of  low 
trades-unionists  and  Radicals  trying  to  stir  up  discontent, 
and  setting  class  against  class,  trying  to  put  a  lot  of  stuff 
into  the  heads  of  the  farm  laborers.  What  I  say  is,  let  well 
alone.  I  don't  see  any  other  country  better  governed.  I 
don't  see  any  other  country  better  off.  If  Church  and  State 
have  brought  us  where  we  are,  then  I'm  for  Church  and 
State  ;  I  want  none  o'  their  Liberty,  Equality,  and  Stupid- 
ity.    I  say  we're  precious  well  off." 

'*  You  are,  my  dear  Scobell,  but  I  am  not,"  observed 
Hilton  Clarke,  pleasantly.  "  However,  you  need  have  no 
fear  of  ih^Household Magazine  adventuring  on  these  troubled 
waters.    We  will  assume  that  everything  is  for  the  best  in 


SIIANDON  BELLS.  gg 

tliis  favored  island  ;  and  in  the  mean  time  we  had  better 
think  of  getting  to  the  railway  station." 

Here  Mr.  Earp,  who  was  a  large,  heavy,  bilious-looking 
man,  and  who  had  scarcely  spoken  all  the  evening,  looked 
at  his  watch. 

"  There  is  one  thing  I  would  like  to  mention,"  he  said, 
slowly.     "  Very  soon  people  will  be  leaving  town." 

"  Doubtless,"  said  Hilton  Clarke,  whom  he  now  particu 
larly  addressed. 

"  And  you  may  be  drawing  attention  to  it  in  an  article 
— perhaps  more  than  once,"  the  melancholy-looking  man 
continued. 

"  Well,  that  is  possible." 

"  Well,  Mr.  Clarke,"  said  the  other,  hesitatingly,  "  if  it 
is  all  the  same  to  you,  I  would  rather  not  have  any  such 
article.  It  is,  if  I  may  say  so,  imprudent.  All  the  daily 
papers  do  it.  They  have  articles  about  London  being  empty ; 
about  the  dead  season  ;  about  everybody  being  abroad. 
And  then,  you  see,  how  can  you  ask  the  advertisers  to  keep 
on  paying  money,  when  you're  telling  them  at  the  same  time 
that  everybody  is  away?" 

"  Oil,  I  .^ee  !  "  exclaimed  Mr.  Clark,  as  he  rose  from  the 
table.  "  It  is  tlie  advertisers  you  are  thinking  of?  "  And 
tlien  he  laughed,  and  put  his  hand  on  Fitzgerald's  shoulder 
as  they  left  the  room  together.  "  There,  Fitzgerald,  don't 
forget  these  hints.  Rules  for  the  editing  of  a  news])aper, 
they  might  be  called.  'Uphold  Churcli  and  State;  and  jn 
August  don't  remind  advertisers  that  people  have  left 
town.' " 

"  We  might  have  them  printed  and  hung  up  in  the 
office  for  the  guidance  of  contributors,"  said  his  companion. 

They  returned  to  town  apparently  very  well  pleased 
with  each  other  and  with  tlie  prospects  of  the  new  period- 
ical. But  just  before  reaching  Charing  Cross  sometliing 
occurred  which  was  calculated  to  give  Fitzgerald  a  still 
more  favorable  recollection  of  that  evening. 

"  I  suppose  you'll  take  a  hansom,  Fitzgerald  ?  "  Hilton 
Clarke  asked  of  him,  casually. 

"No  ;  I'll  walk,"  was  the  reply. 

''Walk?     ToFulham?" 

"  To  the  Fulham  Road,  at  least." 

It  is  impossible  to  say  whether  or  no  this  answer  may 
have   suggested   to  Hilton   Clarke  some  suspicion    about 


90  S  HAND  ON  BELLS. 

Fitzgerald's   circumstances,   but  at   all    events  he  said,  a 
ininuto  after,  and  apparently  without  premeditation: — 

"  Oh,  I  quite  forgot,  Fitzgerald,  that  you've  drawn  noth- 
ing from  tlie  treasury  during  these  past  Aveeks.  That  was 
my  forgetful ness  ;  for  I  am  responsible  to  you.  Why 
didn't  you  remind  me " 

"  It  was  of  no  consequence,"  said  Fitzgerald,  hastily  ; 
but  how  glad  he  was  that  Hilton  Clarke  had  not  had  to  be 
reminded  ! 

"  Well,  then,  shall  I  give  you  something  on  account  ? 
Oh,  don't  be  bashful,  man  !  This  is  a  business  evening.  I 
should  not  have  been  so  remiss." 

"  It  is  of  no  consequence  at  all,"  said  Fitzgerald  again  : 
it  was  quite  enough  for  him  that  his  friend  had  remembered. 
He  had  had  enough  eating  and  drinking  for  a  time.  He 
would  willingly  go  back  to  dry  biscuits  and  apples. 

"  When  I  was  your  age  I  knew  what  it  was  to  be  hard 
up,"  continued  Hilton  Clarke,  "and  sometimes  I  know  it 
now  when  paymasters  are  neglectful.  So  I'm  not  going  to 
incur  that  charge,  whilst  I  remember.  But  I  find  I've  only 
a  sovereign  or  two.  Scobell,  lend  me  ten  pounds,  like  a 
good  fellow  ;  Earp  can  score  it  up  against  me  at  the 
office." 

"Oh,  certainly,"  said  Mr.  Scobell,  though  he  seemed  a 
little  surprised  on  hearing  that  Fitzgerald  had  up  to  that 
moment  received  no  salaiy. 

The  two  bank-notes  were  handed  to  Clarke,  who  in  turn 
passed  them  on,  and  Fitzgerald,  so  far  from  having  any 
hesitation  about  accepting  them,  was  altogether  delighted. 
He  had  looked  forward  with  the  utmost  shrinking  to 
the  obvious  necessity,  sooner  or  later,  of  having  to  recall 
Hilton  Clarke  to  a  sense  of  his  carelessness.  It  was  now 
clear  to  him  that  Mr.  Clarke  would  so  have  regarded  an 
application  from  him — as  a  reminder  that  he  had  been  cul- 
pably neglectful.  And  now  to  find  this  deplorable  thing 
removed  was  an  inexpressible  relief ;  and  the  first  thought 
he  had  was  that  he  would  invest  a  portion  of  this  sum  in 
paying  for  a  ride  on  an  omnibus,  get  home  quickly,  and  see 
if  John  Ross  were  still  awake  and  at  work,  that  he  might, 
as  he  surely  would,  rejoice  in  the  good  fortune  of  his 
nearest  neighbor. 

When  Fitzgerald  reached  the  little  courtyard  in  the 
Fulham  lioad,  there  was  no  doubt  possible  about  Ross's 
being  at  home,  whether  he  was  at  work  or  no,  for  loud  and 


SIIANDON  BELIS,  91 

martial  strains  were  resounding  through  the  big  empty 
studio.  It  was  with  the  utmost  difficulty  that  Fitzgerald 
could  make  himself  heard.  Then  the  bawling  suddenly- 
ceased,  and  the  door  was  opened. 

"  Come  in,  man,  come  in.  What's  the  need  o'  ceremony  ? 
What  for  did  ye  wait  to  knock  ?  " 

"  I  heard  the  end  of  '  Scots  wha  hae'  by  waiting," 
said  Master  Willie,  getting  a  chair  for  himself. 

"  Ay,"  said  liis  host,  fetching  him  a  canister  of  tobacco, 
"  I'm  thinking  King  Edward,  poor  man,  thought  he  was 
never  going  to  hear  the  end  o'  they  Scotch  folk  while  he 
was  alive.  I  daresay  whenever  he  found  himself  with 
nothing  to  do — wi'  half  an  hour  to  spare,  like — he  would  say 
to  his  friends.  '  Come  and  let  us  sit  down  and  curse  Scot- 
land.* Well,  now,  what  have  ye  been  about  ?  What  has 
come  over  ye  ?  " 

"  I  have  been  very  busy  ;  but  the  magazine  I  was  tell- 
ing you  about  has  come  out  at  last ;  and  to-night  I  have 
just  got  back  from  a  dinner  at  Greenwich  which  was  meant 
to  celebrate  the  occasion." 

"  But  ye're  sober !  "  exclaimed  the  other, 

"  Why  not  ?  " 

"  What's  the  use  o'  going  all  that  way  for  a  dinner,  if 
ye  come  home  sober?  Ay,"  said  he,  regarding  him  criti- 
cally, "  but  if  they've  sent  ye  back  sober,  they've  put  an 
extra  bit  o'  color  in  your  cheeks.  It's  no  often  one  sees 
color  like  that  in  London.  It's  no  a  London  complexion  at 
a';  it  reminds  one  more  o' a  cornfield  in  summer,  and  a 
strapping  young  fellow  lying  by  the  side  of  a  stook,  wi' 
l»is  face  half  turned  away  frae  the  sun.  Man,  I'd  like  to 
liave  a  try  at  your  head.  You  go  on  smoking,  and  let  me 
hear  all  your  story  since  I  saw  ye  last.  I'd  Just  like  to 
have  a  try." 

He  threw  aside  his  pipe,  and  quickly  stuck  on  his  easel 
a  sheet  of  light  brown  board,  and  took  up  his  palette  and 
colors.  And  then  he  began  to  walk  up  and  down  a  bit, 
ultimately  putting  colors  on  the  palette,  and  studying  Fitz- 
gerald's head  from  different  points  of  view. 

"  Man,"  he  said,  "  ye've  more  character  about  ye  than  I 
thought.     Ye'll  have  a  fine  head  when  ye  grow  up." 

Fitzgerald  thought  he  had  done  growing,  as  he  was 
three-and-twenty,  and  five  foot  ten.  But  by  this  time  he 
was  familiar  with  Ross's  way  of  working,  and  with  the 
jerky  observations  with  which  he  usually  accompanied  that, 


92  SHANDON  BELLS. 

and  so  lie  did  not  interrupt.  After  a  while  Ross  suddenly 
went  to  a  portfolio  that  stood  near  the  wall,  and  after  hav- 
ing rudely  tumbled  about  a  number  of  slieets,  lie  brought 
back  a  large  and  dusty  photograph — of  Giorgione's  armed 
warrior  in  the  Uffizi. 

*'  That's  what  your  head  '11  be  in  middle  age." 

"  That !  I  don't  see  the  least  likeness,"  said  Fitz- 
gerald. 

"But  I  do.  It's  my  business.  Of  course  you'll  no  be 
dark  like  that,  but  that's  your  nose  and  forehead.  Ay, 
and  the  mouth  too.  But  the  com})lexion  makes  a  great 
difference ;  and  the  hair — have  ye  been  burning  yourself  in 
the  sun  a'  the  day  ?  Where  got  ye  that  straight  noso  in 
Ireland  ?  " 

"  I  suppose  there  are  as  many  tliere  as  elsewhere,"  said 
Fitzgerald,  trying  to  steal  a  look  at  the  board  on  the  easel, 
but  failing. 

"  I  dinna  believe  ye,"  said  Ross,  who  was  now  working 
very  eagerly,  with  snatches  of  contemplative  whistling 
coming  in  at  intervals.  "  I've  watched  the  shearers  that 
come  over  from  Belfast.  There's  no  one  in  twenty  that 
escapes  from  the  general  type — the  turned-up  nose  and 
long  upper  lip.  Ay,  and  so  the  wonderful  new  magazine's 
out.  We'll,  tell  us  all  about  it,  man  ;  ye  need  no  be  feared 
about  altering  your  expression  ;  it's  only  the  tan  o'  the 
sunlight  I'm  trying  at,  though  whether  I  can  do  anything — 
but  there's  no  two  curls  o'  your  hair  the  same  color,  man  ! 
What  do  you  mean  by  that?  There's  an  inconsistency 
about  ye  that's  aggravating.     Well,  about  the  magazine  ?  " 

So  Fitzgerald  told  him  all  that  had  happened ;  and 
dwelt  on  his  great  good  fortune  in  having  been  able  to 
make  so  eaHy  a  start  in  London,  thanks  to  one  or  two 
kind  friends ;  and  said  how  everybody  was  pleased  at  the 
prospects  of  this  venture. 

"Ay,  ay,"  said  the  broad-shouldered,  red-bearded  little 
man,  as  he  stepped  back  a  yard  or  two  from  the  easel,  and 
regarded  his  handiwork,  "and  that  may  partly  account  for 
the  color,  as  well  as  the  warm  day  and  the  trip  to  Green- 
wich. The  flush  of  success,  eh  ?  And  I  warrant  there's  a 
young  lass  somewhere  that's  just  as  pleased  as  yoursel'." 

Taen  he  suddenly  bawled  out  in  a  prodigious  and  rau- 
cous voice,  looking  intently  at  his  work  the  while  : — 

"  And  we'll  tak  a  right  guid-willic  wauglit 
For  auld  lang  syne  ! " 


SHANDON  BELLS.  93 

Ko-cvevcr.  tins  vocal  outburst  was  not  the  result  of  self- 
saiisf action. 

**  What  put  it  into  my  head,"  he  continued,  in  a  series 
of  inconsecutive  growls,  as  he  stepped  baak,  and  then 
stepped  forward,  and  then  bit  the  end  of  his  brush,  "  to  try 
such  a  blaze  of  flesh-color  ?  It's  the  most  infernal  thing  in 
the  world.  I'm  a  landscape  painter;  at  least  I  say  I  am/ 
I  think  I'll  take  to  house  fronts  and  doorsteps.  The  por- 
trait painting  I  can  do  is  a  wee  dabbie  o'  red  and  white 
under  an  auld  wife's  cap  if  she's  coming  along  the  road 
about  twa  miles  off. 

*•  *  And  we'll  tak  a  right  guid-willie  waught' " — 

But  there  was  no  joy  left  in  the  jovial  song ;  nothing 
but  perplexity  and  irritation. 

"  Don't  bother  about  it  to-night,"  said  Master  Willie. 
"Let's  have  a  quiet  smoke  and  a  chat." 

The  next  thing  he  saw  was  Ross  suddenly  advance  and 
with  one  stroke  drive  liis  fist  right  througli  the  frail  board, 
sending  the  easel  and  everytliing  flying  and  sprawling  across 
the  room.  Then,  that  action  having  apparently  assuaged 
his  passion,  he  quietly  took  the  palette  from  the  thumb  of 
his  left  hand  and  laid  it  down. 

"  I  am  a  failure,"  he  said,  drawing  along  a  chair  to  the 
bare  wooden  table.  ''Nothing  I  try  will  do.  Ye  are  one 
'o  the  lucky  ones  ;  only  ye  dinna  ken  the  contentment  there 
is  in  a  glass  o'  good  Scotch  whiskey.  I  do.  But  d'ye  think 
I'm  to  be  cast  down  because  I  canna  pent  ?  No  while  I 
can  light  a  pipe  !  " 

"  But  it's  nonsense  your  talking  like  that !  "  exclaimed 
Fitzgerald,  who  had  been  privileged  to  look  over  these  can- 
vases, and  who,  little  as  he  knew  about  painting,  had  been 
greatly  struck  with  the  strangely  vivid  effects  he  saw  here 
and  there,  along  with,  as  he  imagined,  an  absolute  want  of 
definite  construction  or  technical  skill.  Amid  all  this  con- 
fused chaos  of  impressions — which  he  was  not  surprised  the 
dealers  had  for  the  most  part  regarded  as  quite  hopeless — 
he  had  seen  bits  that  were  to  him  a  sort  of  revelation. 
Moreover,  he  had  gone  out  once  or  twice  into  the  country 
with  John  Ross ;  he  had  listened  to  his  talk  ;  had  watched 
the  things  he  had  pointed  out ;  and  it  seemed  to  him  that 
tlie  world  had  grown  a  great  deal  more  interesting  since 
this  red-haired  Scotchman  had  taught  him  how  to  look  at  itr 


94  SHANDON  BELLS. 

"  It  is  nonsense  your  talking  like  that,"  repeated  Fitz- 
gerald.  '*  And  very  soon  the  world  will  find  out,  and  will 
tell  you,  whether  you  can  paint  or  not." 

"  But  do  I  complain  ?  "  said  the  other,  fetching  over  some 
fresh-water  and  a  tumbler.  "  Do  I  howl  ?  Have  you  seen 
me  lie  down  on  the  floor  and  squeal?  Bless  the  laddie, 
I've  my  wits  left.  And  I'm  thinking  that,  now  this  machine 
o'  yours  is  fairly  on  the  rails,  ye'd  better  have  a  day's  holi- 
day the  morn  ;  and  I'll  take  ye  and  shoA^  ye  as  fine  a  bit  o' 
wilderness  within  five  miles  o'  this  very  place  as  ye'd  want 
to  find  in  Canada.     Will  ye  go  ?  " 

"  Won't  I?  said  Master  Willie,  who  had  discovered  that 
a  walk  in  the  country  with  this  keen-eyed,  talkative,  dog- 
matic person  was  in  itself  a  sort  of  liberal  education.  But 
then  again  he  added  :  "  No,  not  to-morrow.  We  will  put 
it  off  for  a  few  days,  till  I  see  how  this  thing  is  really  go- 
ing." 

"  You  are  as  cautious  as  a  Scotchman,"  said  his  friend 
with  a  laugh.  "Well,  here's  to  the  magazine,  and  to  you, 
and  to  all  good  fellows ;  and  may  the  black  deil  be  aye  a 
long  way  away  from  us !  " 


CHAPTER  IX. 

IN    STRAITS. 

The  high  hopes  that  had  been  raised  by  the  demand  for 
the  first  number  of  the  Household  Magazine  were  y^vy 
speedily  abated.  An  ominously  large  number  of  the  copies 
came  back  unsold  from  the  news-venders.  Worse  than 
that,  as  week  after  week  passed,  the  small  minimum  circu- 
lation on  which,  after  these  returns,  they  had  calculated, 
showed  signs  of  still  further  slirinking.  In  these  disheart- 
ening circumstances  it  must  be  said  for  Mr.  Scobell  that  he 
played  a  man's  part ;  he  accused  nobody ;  he  was  not  dis- 
mayed ;  nay,  he  ventured  even  yet  to  hope. 

"  Rome  wasn't  built  in  a  day,"  he  would  say.     "  A  shil- 

lin's  a  good  lot.     And  if  the  public  won't  buy  it,  at  all 

events  we've  done  our  best.     I'm  not  ashamed  of  it  when  I 

e  it  on  a  book-stall.      I'm  not  ashamed  to  see  it  lying  on 


SHANDON  BELLS.  95 

the  table  of  my  club.  I  say  there's  nothing  to  be  ashamed 
of  about  it.  I  call  it  a  gentlemanly-looking  tiling.  We'll 
haye  to  be  content  with  small  beginnings.  Mind  a  shillin'sp 
a  shillin'." 

Hilton  Clarke,  on  the  other  hand,  was  disappointed,  and 
inclined  to  be  peevish,  and  openly  laid  the  blame  on  the 
management.  There  was  no  pushing  of  the  magazine.  They 
had  not  spent  enough  money  in  advertising.  Indeed,  he 
very  soon  showed  that  he  was  hopeless  of  the  whole  affair ; 
and  it  was  only  by  the  exercise  of  much  tact  that  Fitzger- 
ald kept  him,  as  far  as  he  could  be  kept,  to  his  duties  as 
editor. 

With  Fitzgerald,  however,  he  remained  great  friends ; 
and  it  was  Master.  Willie's  privilege  to  listen,  for  many  a 
half-hour  together,  to  his  companion's  ingenious  and  clever 
talking,  that  was  full  of  a  very  curious  and  subtle  penetra- 
tion in  literary  matters.  Once  or  twice  it  almost  seemed 
to  him  a  pity  that  a  man  who  could  talk  so  well  should  not 
write  a  little  more ;  and  indeed  on  one  occasion  he  went 
the  length  of  hinting  to  Mr.  Hilton  Clarke  that  the  world 
had  a  right  to  expect  from  him  some  more  definite  work 
than  he  had  already  done.  They  were  walking  in  Hyde 
Park. 

"  You  mean  some  substantive  publication  ?  "  said  he, 
as  he  crumbled  up  some  bread  he  had  brought  with  him, 
and  began  to  throw  it  to  the  ducks  in  the  Serj^entine,  this 
being  a  favorite  amusement  of  his.  "  I  doubt  whether  the. 
public  care  much  about  viewy  books.  They  can  manage 
an  essay  now  and  again.  I  have  thought  of  it,  though.  I 
could  bring  together  two  or  three  things  I  have  written, 
under  some  such  title  as  'Laws  and  Limitations  of  Art.'" 

"  Why  not  ?  "  said  Fitzgerald,  eagerly.  Here,  indeed, 
w^ould  be  something  he  could  triumphantly  place  before 
Kitty.  No  longer  would  she  be  able  to  ask  of  his  literary 
hero,  "  What  has  he  done ? "  "I  am  sure  it  would  be  most 
interesting,"  he  continued.  "  I  am  sure  no  one  could  make 
such  a  subject  more,  interesting;  and  it  wants  clearness; 
there  is  so  much  confusion — about  it." 

"  But  some  day  or  other " 

"  That  is  what  you  are  always  saying." 

"  Wait  a  bit.  I  say  some  day  or  other  I  mean  to  tackle 
something  with  a  trifle  more  of  human  nature  in  it.  I  might 
begin   it  in  the  Household  Magazine^  only  it  would  be 


OG  SHANDON  BELLS, 

tlirowii  away  on  squires.  Perhaps  it  would  not  run  to  a 
book." 

"  But  the  subject  ?  " 

"  The  Private  Meditations  of  Zenobia's  Husband." 

"Zenobia's  husband — t  " 

'*  I  forget  what  the  gentleman's  name  was ;  most  people 
do  ;  that's  the  point  of  the  situation.  But  you  remember 
that  the  lovely  and  virtuous  Queen  of  Palmyra  had  a  hus- 
band ;  and  he  must  have  had  his  own  little  thoughts  about 
things.  I  suppose  now,"  he  continued,  throwing  away  the 
last  of  the  crumbs,  and  linking  his  arm  in  his  companion's 
as  they  set  out  again — "  I  suppose  now  you  think  that  be- 
fore writing  such  a  book  I  ought  to  go  and  qualify  by 
marrying  somebody." 

"  You  might  do  worse." 

"  I  doubt  it.  I  shall  never  marry.  Life  is  only  endura- 
ble when  you  have  all  round  you  an  atmospliere  of  possi- 
bility. Then  the  unexpected  may  happen  ;  each  new  day 
may  bring  new  relations.  But  when  you  marry,  your  fate 
is  tixed  ;  life  is  closed,  the  romance  of  it  vanished •" 

"But  what  do  you  call  the  romance  of  it?"  said  Fitz- 
gerald, bluntly.  "  Going  philandering  after  another  man's 
wife?" 

"I  perceive,  Mr.  Fitzgerald,"  said  Hilton  Clarke, 
blandly,  "  that  on  one  occasion  I  must  have  been  indiscreet. 
However,  as  you  don't  even  know  the  name  of  the  lady  of 
the.  cigars,  no  great  harm  has  been  done.  Feuerbach,  if 
you  remember,  maintains  that  a  being  without  attributes  is 
non-existent.  Now  a  person  whose  sole  attribute,  so  far  as 
you  know,  is  that  she  smokes  cigars,  can  only  exist  a  very 
little  bit,  as  far  as  you  are  concerned.  The  Lady  Irmin- 
^arde,  now  :  she  wouldn't  allow  even  a  cigarette  to  sully 
the  purity  of  her  sweet  mountain  air." 

"The  Lady  Irmingarde?"  Fitzgerald  repeated,  inno- 
cently. 

"I  can  imagine  her.  A  coquettish  nose;  very  blue 
eyes  ;  a  little  freckled  ;  a  mischievous  laugh  ;  and  a  figure 
that  would  go  charmingly  in  a  short  dress  with  a  milking- 
pail." 

"  It  doesn't  take  much  trouble  to  imagine  all  that,"  said 
Fitzgerald.     "  You  can  see  it  any  day  in  an  operetta." 

"  Well,  you  know,  some  prefer  the  maid  with  the  railk- 
ing-pail,  while  some  prefer  a  woman  of  the  world,  with  wit 
and  courage  and  dexterity,  as  well  as  beauty.     Don't  let  U8 


SHANDON  BELLS,  97 

quarrel.  In  fact,  Fitzgerald,"  he  said,  in  a  franker  way  of 
speaking,  but  still  with  that  careless  air,  "  I  am  rather  in  a 
muddle.  Who  was  it  who  said,  *  My  mind  to  me  a  king- 
dom is';  My  kingdom,  I  know,  sometimes  gets  very  re- 
bellious— tries  to  push  me  off  the  throne,  in  lact.  If  it 
doesn't  take  care,  I'll  abdicate  altogether.  And  so  to  let 
matters  settle  down  a  little^  I  am  going  to  retreat  for  a 
while  to  Dover.  I  was  thinking  of  running  down  this  after- 
noon  " 

"  But  the  article  for  to-morrow  ?  "  exclaimed  his  assis- 
tant editor. 

"  Oh,  you  can  get  something  or  other — do,  like  a  good 
fellow.  Print  one  of  your  '  Confessions  of  a  Young  Man.' 
T  think  they  are  excellent.  It  won't  be  throwing  much 
away ;  for  you  can  forward  it  to  a  publisher,  and  ask  him 
to  judge  of  the  bulk  by  the  sample.  It  will  look  better  in 
type.  You  won't  mind  sacrificing  one  of  them  ;  and  I'll  do 
as  much  for  you  some  other  time." 

This  was  the  last  of  Hilton  Clarke  that  Fitzgerald  saw 
for  many  a  day;  and  after  his  chiefs  departure  for  Dover, 
he  very  speedily  found  that  the  whole  work  of  editing  the 
magazine  and  writing  the  literary  section  of  it  had  to  be 
borne  on  his  own  shoulders.  Occasionally  a  few  contribu- 
tions would  be  sent  up  from  the  Lord  Warden  Hotel ;  but 
they  were  slight  and  unimportant.  Nevertheless  Fitzgerald 
would  not  admit  even  to  himself  that  this  conduct  showed 
any  want  of  consideration  on  the  part  of  his  friend  and 
hero.  What  if  this  seclusion  were  to  lead  to  the  production 
of  one  or  other  of  those  books  that  had  been  vaguely  indi- 
cated ?  Ought  he  not  to  be  proud  to  have  the  chance  of 
lending  a  helping  hand  in  this  way?  Or — for  this  suspicion 
would  crop  up  from  time  to  time — suppose  that  Hilton 
Clarke  had  got  into  some  delicate  entanglement  in  London 
from  which  the  only  sure  escape  was  his  prolonged  absence 
from  town  ?  Master  Willie  worked  away  as  hard  as  he 
could,  and  bore  with  equanimity  the  remonstrances  of  Mr. 
Scobell  about  the  absence  of  the  editor,  and  sacrificed  not 
one  only  but  several  of  the  "  Confessions  of  a  Young  Man," 
and  tried  to  give  the  best  account  he  could  of  his  circum- 
stances in  his  long  letters  to  Kitty. 

Theie  was  one  very  serious  consideration,  however,  that 
could  not  be  speciously  glossed  over  :  he  was  again  almost 
penniless.  Not  even  in  leaving  London  had  Hilton  Clarke 
made  any  reference  to  money  matters,  though  by  that  time 


98  SHANDON  BELLS. 

he  was  very  considerably  in  Fitzgerald's  debt.  For  all  his 
work  on  the  magazine  the  latter  had  received  nothing  be- 
yond the  ten  pounds  Hilton  Clarke  had  handed  over  on  the 
journey  back  from  Greenwich  ;  and  that  sum,  welcome  as 
it  was,  could  not  be  expected  to  last  forever,  even  if  Kitty's 
birthday  had  not  intervened,  demanding  a  little  souvenir. 
Sovereign  after  sovereign  went,  despite  the  most  rigid 
economy.  Again  and  again  the  dire  necessity  of  having  to 
remind  Hilton  Clarke  of  his  thoughtlessness  arose  before 
his  mind,  and  again  and  again  he  would  put  that  off  for  a 
few  days,  making  sure  that  Clarke  would  remember  and 
write  to  him  of  his  own  accord.  He  had  himself  to  blame. 
It  was  not  a  proper  arrangement.  He  ought  to  have  in- 
sisted on  being  put  on  some  definite  footing  at  the  office, 
instead  of  being  thus  contracted  out,  as  it  were.  That 
Hilton  Clarke  had  drawn  the  full  sum,  month  by  month,  he 
knew,  for  Mr.  Silas  Earp  had  casually  mentioned  it.  It 
was  beyond  measure  distressing  to  him  to  think  of  his  friend 
being  tlius  cruelly  inconsiderate ;  but  he  held  his  peace,  and 
went  on  with  his  work,  and  hoped  for  the  best. 

One  night  he  was  sitting  alone,  and  perhaps  rather 
down-hearted,  for  he  had  had  no  letter  from  Kitty  these 
two  days  back,  when  he  heard  his  Scotch  friend  ascending 
the  stairs  outside.  John  Ross  had  been  for  some  time  ab- 
sent, sketching  up  the  Thames  ;  and  the  solitary  lodging  in 
the  Fulham  Road  had  been  even  more  solitary  since  his 
departure.  Master  Willie  was  glad  to  hear  that  brisk  foot- 
step outside. 

Then  the  sharp-eyed  little  red-haired  man  came  into  the 
room,  and  seemed  to  take  in  the  whole  situation  at  a 
glance. 

"What's  the  matter  with  ye,  man?  Hard  work? 
The  London  air  ?  Ar«  ye  in  the  dumps  about  some  young 
lass  ?  " 

"  Well,*'  said  Fitzgerald,  brightening  up,  "  maybe  I 
Iia\e  been  working  too  hard.  The  magazine  isn't  a  very 
groat  success  bo  far,  you  know.  I  have  been  offering  some 
things  in  one  or  two  other  quarters;  but  it's  like  trying  to 
squeeze  through  the  eye  of  a  needle." 

"  Time  enough,  time  enough,"  said  John  Ross.  "  Your 
face  is  no  the  right  color." 

Then  he  glanced  suspiciously  around. 

"  Where's  your  supper  ?  "  he  said  abruptly. 

Fitzgerald  flushed,  and  said,  hastily. 


S HAND  ON  BELLS.  99 

"  Oh,  supper?  supper?    It  isn't  nine  yet,  is  it?" 

"  It's  nearer  ten.  Now  look  here,  my  lad ;  you  come 
down  the  stairs  with  me,  and  I'll  show  ye  something.  A 
fellow  has  sent  me  a  kippered  salmon  fi-ae  the  Solway,  and 
if  ye've  never  tasted  a  kippered  salmon,  then  ye  dinna  ken 
how  bountiful  Providence  has  been  to  mortals.  Come 
away  down,  man,  and  I'll  brander  ye  a  steak  that  '11  make 
your  mouth  water — to  say  nothing  o'  your  een,  if  ye  happen 
to  come  across  a  wee  bit  lump  o'  pepper." 

He  would  hear  of  no  excuse ;  he  carried  off  Fitzgerald  ; 
went  below,  and  lit  the  gas  in  the  big  gaunt  studio  ;  also  the 
stove ;  laid  the  table ;  cut  a  couple  of  steaks  from  the  firm,  rud- 
dy-brown fish,  and  put  them  on  the  gridiron  ;  fetched  tum- 
blers and  bottles ;  and  then,  as  he  stood  over  the  gridiron, 
and  turned  the  salmon  steaks  with  a  fork,  he  regaled  his 
companion  with  "  Auld  Lang  Syne,"  one  line  whistled,  the 
next  sung,  with  occasionally  a  bit  of  a  double  shuffle  com- 
ing in.  It  was  clear  that  he  was  in  very  excellent  spirits, 
or  pretended  to  be. 

Then,  when  he  had  popped  the  frizzling  hot  steaks  on  a 
plate,  and  put  them  on  the  table,  he  drew  in  a  couple  of 
chairs. 

^'  Come  away,  my  boy.  Pass  the  bread.  Fitz,  my 
laddie,  I'm  going  to  ask  ye  an  impertinent  question.  Have 
ye  got  any  money  ?  " 

He  affected  to  be  very  busy  in  cutting  the  loaf,  and 
fetching  a  couple  of  lemons,  and  so  on,  so  that  he  should 
not  see  any  embarrassment  his  companion  might  betray. 

"  Not  very  much,"  was  the  answer,  with  a  doubtful 
kind  of  laugh. 

"I  dinna  want  to  borrow.  I  want  ye  to  tell  me  if 
j^ou've  got  any,  that's  all." 

"  As  I  say,  I  haven't  very  much." 

"  Have  ye  got  any  ?  "  said  the  other,  pertinaciously,  and 
for  a  moment  fixing  his  keen  eyes  on  him. 

"  I've  got  four  shillings,"  said  Fitzgerald  '"  It  isn't 
what  you  might  call  a  princely  fortune ;  but  while  I  have  it 
I  sha'n't  starve." 

"Are  ye  so  sure  o'  that  ?  "  said  John  Ross,  pretending  to 
be  much  occupied  with  the  lemon  he  held.  "  I'm  tliinking 
ye  have  been  starving  yourself.  Now  I'm  flush.  And  it's 
so  seldom  in  my  life  I've  had  ower  much  money,  I'd  just 
like  to  try  the  effect  o'  lending  ye  a  pound  or  two.  Just 
think  o'  the  luck!     Just  tell  me  this  is  anything  but  luck! 


100  SHANDON  BELLS. 

There  am  I  sitting  in  front  o'  the  inn  one  afternoon,  having 
a  pipe,  and  little  else  to  do.  'Landlord,'  says  I,  'get  down 
your  sign,  man,  and  I'll  repaint  it  for  you.'  Away  the  fat 
old  fellow  goes,  and  fetches  a  ladder,  and  down  comes  the 
rickety  old  board.  Then  soap  and  water,  and  a  rub  over 
with  megilp.  Man,  I  took  a  fancy  to  the  thing ;  the  sod- 
ier's  red  coat  ;vas  fine,  and  I  put  in  some  trees,  beside  the 
mn,  and  a  bit  of  a  glimmer  o'  sunlight  down  the  road. 
Ma  certes,  when  it  was  dry,  and  hung  up  on  the  iron  rod 
again,  it  looked  fine,  I  can  tell  ye  ?  And  that  very  after- 
noon— just  think  of  the  luck  o't ! — by  comes  a  gentleman, 
and  he  wants  a  drink  of  meal  and  water  for  his  horse,  and 
he  begins  to  ask  the  landlord  about  the  sign,  and  what 
does  the  fellow  do  but  ask  him  to  go  in  and  look  at  my 
sketches  ? — me  away  down  the  river  at  the  time  in  a  punt. 
And  then  the  upshot  was  that  he  bought  two  at  £10  apiece  ; 
that  was  £20 ;  and  if  the  half  o'  that  would  be  of  use  to 
you,  ye're  welcome  to  the  loan  of  it,  and  may  ye  live  until 
I  ask  -ye  for  it !  " 

Fitzgerald  was  deeply  touched  by  this  kindness  on  the 
part  of  one  who  knew  almost  nothing  about  him.  What, 
indeed,  could  Ross  know  ?  It  is  true,  the  lad  had  clear 
and  honest  eyes,  that  were  likely  to  win  the  confidence  of 
a  stranger  ;  but  it  is  more  probable  that  this  friendly  offer 
was  in  great  measure  the  result  of  that  sort  of  subtle  free- 
masonry that  seems  to  exist  among  those  who  have  a 
romantic  affection  for  out-of-door  sports  and  sights  and 
sounds,  and  who  have  had  opportunities  of  talking  over 
these  together. 

"  Are  ye  proud  ?  "  said  John  Ross,  sharply. 

"  I  don't  know  how  to  thank  you,"  said  Fitzgerald, 
simply.  "  I — I  think  it  is  tremendously  kind  of  you.  1 
would  take  it  in  a  minute  if  there  was  need " 

"  How  long  do  ye  expect  to  live  on  four  shillings  ?  "  de- 
manded the  other. 

But  then  Fitzgerald  proceeded  to  explain  how  there  was 
a  very  considerable  sum  of  money  owing  to  him,  and  how 
from  day  to  day  he  had  been  expecting  it,  or  part  of  it. 

"  Bless  me,  laddie,  ye  seem  to  be  clean  daft !  "  Ross  cried. 
"  To  go  starving  yourself  deliberately,  out  o'  sensitiveness 
for  another  man's  feelings  !  Let  him  be  as  sensitive  about 
you,  to  begin  with  !  Nonsense,  nonsense,  man  ;  get  hold 
o'  the  money  at  once!  I  would  make  a  hundred  and  fifth 
applications  for  it  before  I'd  let  both  soul  and  body  go  down 


SHANDON  BELLS.  101 

into  my  boots.  The  picture  ye  were  wlien  I  went  up 
to  your  room  a  while  since  !     A  snuff  for  his  fine  feelings  !  '* 

"  Oh,  but  you  don't  know  how  grateful  I  ought  to  be  to 
this  Hilton  Clarke,"  contended  Fitzgerald,  cheerfully. 
''Mind  you,  I've  just  been  finding  out  for  myself  how  diffi- 
cult it  is  to  get  an  entrance  into  London  literature.  And 
you  see  through  him  I  got  employment  right  at  the  begm- 
ning '* 

"  What  on  earth  is  the  use  of  employment  that  ye're  no 
paid  for?" 

"  But  the  money  is  there.  I  can  have  it  for  the  ask- 
ing." 

"  In  God's  name  ask  for  it,  then  ! "  said  his  emphatic 
companion.  "  I  dinna  want  to  have  to  attend  a  funeral.  A 
nice  thing  it  would  be  for  me  to  ken  yo  were  just  over  my 
head,  lying  in  a  wooden  box.  No  more  kippered  salmon 
for  ye  then.  No  more  ale  for  ye — it  is  pretty  clear,  isn't 
it  ?  No  more  long  letters  from  a  young  lass  somewhere. 
It's  no  that  that's  putting  ye  out  ?  "  he  added,  with  another 
sharp  glance. 

"  No,  no ;  there's  no  trouble  there."  said  Fitzgerald, 
brightly.  "  Nor,  indeed,  anywhere.  I  will  hang  on  as  long 
as  I  can  with  my  tour  shillings ;  then,  if  I  don't  hear  by 
that  time,  I  will  write.  Now  we  will  light  up ;  and  you 
will  let  me  see  the  sketches  you  have  brought  back  from  the 
Thames." 

They  lit  their  pipes.  But  before  fetching  the  canvases, 
Ross  stepped  over  to  a  dusky  recess,  and  brought  back  a 
brace  of  wild-duck — both  beautifully-plumaged  mallard— 
and  threw  them  down. 

"  There,"  said  he,  "  that's  better  than  sketches.  Take 
them  with  ye,  since  ye're  bent  on  starving  yourself.  Bonnie 
birds,  aren't  they  ?  That  shows  ye  the  use  o'  having  a  gun 
lying  beside  ye  when  ye're  sketching  in  a  punt." 

"If  you'd  only  bring  some  whiskey  with  you,"  said  Fitz- 
gerald, laughing,  "  I  think  I  could  afford  to  ask  you  to  have 
some  dinner  with  me  to-morrow  night." 

"But  I  will,"  responded  his  companion,  seriously. 
"  Dinner,  or  supper,  or  what  ye  like.  And  the  next  night 
ss  well,  if  ye're  willin' ;  I'll  see  ye  have  two  good  meals  be- 
fore they  make  a  corpse  o'  ye  ;  and  one  wild  duck  makes  a 
good  enough  dinner,  an  excellent  dinner,  for  two  folks.  Eh, 
man,  if  I  had  had  a  bit  spaniel  wi'  me !  Many's  and  many's 
the  time  I  heard  the  duck  quite  close  by  me  in  the  rushes, 


102  S HAND  ON  BELLS. 

dipping  their  bills  and  flapping  their  wings.  Then  away 
would  go  the  mallard  with  a  whirr  like  a  policeman's  rattle  ; 
and  then  you'd  hear  the  mother  quack,  quacking  to  the 
brood.  Catch  her  leaving  them  till  she  had  got  them 
hidd(m  somewhere !  The  drake,  I'm  thinking,  is  like  the 
buck  rabbit :  c'atch  a  buck  rabbit  warning  anybody,  so  long 
as  he  can  show  a  clean  pair  o'  heels  and  a  white  fud  !  but 
the  doe,  when  ye  startle  her,  down  comes  her  liind-legs  on 
the  ground  with  a  whack  ye  can  hear  a  hundred  yards  off, 
and  if  the  young  ones  dinna  take  heed  o'  that,  they  deserve 
what  they're  likely  to  get." 

"Yes — but  the  sketches?"  suggested  Fitzgerald. 
His  companion  had  contentedly  sat  down  again. 
"  Oh,  ay.     I  got  some  work  done — I  did  a  good  deal  o' 
work.     Did  ye  ever  see  a  kingfisher  fishing?  ' 

"No;  they're  not  common  with  us  in  the  south  of  Ire- 
land." 

"Man,  I  watched  one  for  near  half  an  hour  last  week, 
and  the  whole  o'  that  time  he  never  stirred  a  feather.  He 
-was  on  a  stone,  or  maybe  it  was  a  withered  stump,  under  a 
bush  that  was  hanging  over  the  water,  I  was  beginning 
to  doubt  but  that  somebody  had  stuffed  him,  and  put  him 
there  to  make  a  fool  o'  folk,  when  snap !  down  went  'his 
head  and  neck,  and  the  next  second  there  he  was  with  a 
small  fish  crosswise  in  his  beak.  Then  he  twitched  his  head, 
or  maybe  he  was  striking  the  fish  on  the  stump  ;  then  there 
was  no  fish  visible  ;  and  then  a  kind  o'  streak  o'  blue  flame 
went  down  across  the  rushes  ;  that  was  the  gentleman  him- 
self going  off  in  a  flash  o'  glory,  as  it  were." 

"Did  you  put  him  in  your  sketch?"  asked  Fitzgerald, 
insidiously. 

"  It's  an  ungainly  kind  o'  a  beast,  too,"  continued  John 
Ross,  taking  no  heed  of  the  hint.  "Stumpy  in  shape. 
And  there  are  too  many  colors  when  he's  standing  still  like 
that.  But  once  he's  well  on  the  wing  you  sea  nothing  but 
blue — just  a  flash  o'  blue  fire,  that's  fine  enough  when  it 
crosses  a  long,  standing  clump  o' yellow  rushes;  but  then 
again  when  it  crosses  a  dark  bit  o'  shadow  it's  more  than 
that;  it  gives  a  kind  o'  metallic  jerk  that  gets  beyond  color 
a'thegither.  I  used  to  sit  and  watch  for  them.  It  becomes 
a  sort  o'  fascination  ;  it's  like  waiting  to  hear  a  pistol-shot 
when  ye  see  a  man  aiming." 

'*  I  suppose  you  did  a  little  painting  as  well  while  you 
were  up  the  river?  "  inquired  Master  Willie,  dexterously. 


SHAND ON  BELLS.  \  03 

"  Pent  ?  Bless  the  laddie,  what  did  I  go  there  for  but 
to  pent  ?  I  pented  a  signboard  to  begin  wi',  which  was  a 
good  honest  piece  o'  work  ;  and  I  made  fifteen  sketches  at 
least ;  and  I  came  home  £  20  richer  than  when  I  went  away, 
just  to  find  a  young  idjut  wearing  himself  away  for  want  o' 
the  common  necessaries  o'  life.  For  that's  what  it  comes 
to,  my  callant ;  and  if  ye'll  no  take  the  £10  I  offer  ye,  I'll 
no  leave  grup  o'  ye  until  ye  write  and  get  the  money  that's 
your  ain." 

And  indeed  that  was  what  it  did  come  to ;  for  so  persis- 
tent was  the  Scotchman  that  before  he  let  his  companion 
go  that  night  Fitzgerald  had  definitely  promised  that  the 
next  day,  if  no  letter  arrived  for  him  in  the  morning,  he 
would  write  to  Dover,  and  remind  Mr.  Hilton  Clarke  that 
even  the  most  willinor  hack  must  have  its  handful  of  corn. 


^  CHAPTER  X. 

NEW   FKIENDS. 

Just  at  this  moment  an  incident  occurred  which  seemed 
Blight  enough  in  itself,  but  which  proved  to  have  somewhat 
far-reaching  consequences.  Among  these  "  Confessions  of 
a  Young  Man  "  which  Fitzgerald  had  been  forced  to  print 
in  the  Household  Magazine  for  lack  of  more  substantial 
material  was  a  paper  entitled  "  On  Murder."  It  was  chiefly 
an  essay  on  the  doubts  of  a  young  sportsman  over  the  kill- 
ing of  beautiful  and  innocent  creatures — his  compunction 
on  seeing  them  lying  on  the  grass  stone-dead  and  besmeared 
with  blood,  or,  worse  still,  ineffectually  fluttering  with 
broken  wing  to  try  to  get  away  from  him  on  his  approach. 
Or  suppose  he  has  wounded  one  of  those  sea-birds  that 
are  extraordinarily  tenacious  of  life,  and  finds  himself  forced 
to  murder  in  cold  blood,  and  with  protracted  difiiculty,  this 
beautiful,  wild-eyed  panting  thing  ?  "Who  could  ever  for- 
get the  mute  glance  of  a  wounded  roe-deer  ?  Or  fail  to  be 
struck  with  remorse  at  the  piteous  squeal  of  a  kicking  and 
struggling  hare  ?  These  were  the  moments  of  reflection, 
of  contemplation,  that  occurred  in  the  eagerness  of  pursuit; 
they  were  not  pleasant— especially  to  the  sportsman  who 


104:  SHANDON  BELLS. 

was  alone.  But  then  again  the  paper  went  on  to  speak  of 
doubts  on  the  other  side — doubts  whether  it  was  not  possible 
to  cultivate  sentiment  to  an  unwholesome  degree.  To  live 
by  the  taking  of  life  was  a  universal  law  of  nature.  Animals 
had  to  be  killed  for  food ;  and  if  it  was  objected  that  the 
sportsman  shot  for  amusement  and  not  for  the  procuring 
of  food,  one  misjht  ask  a  rabbit  which  he  preferred,  to  be 
killed  outright  by  a  charge  of  No.  5  shot,  even  in  the  way 
of  amusement,  or  to  be  snared  by  the  keepers  for  the  market, 
strangling  for  a  couple  of  hours  perhaps  with  the  brass  wire 
getting  tighter  and  tighter.  Then  the  training  and  hardi- 
hood and  skill  and  health  of  the  highest  of  all  the  animals 
had  to  be  considered.  In  short,  the  whole  essay  was  a  con- 
flict between  Mr.  W.  Fitzgerald  as  a  hardy  eager,  and 
practised  wild-fowl  stalker  and  Mr.  W.  Fitzgerald  as  a 
literary  person  of  acute,  and  perhaps  even  poetic,  sympa- 
thies. 

It  is  just  possible  that  a  consciousness  of  the  impossi- 
bility of  reconciling  these  two  people  had  been  borne  in 
upon  the  writer  of  the  article  during  its  progress :  he  wound 
up  witli  an  appeal  ad  rem ;  that  is  to  say,  a  description  of 
a  day's  cliff-sliooting  in  the  south  of  -Ireland.  How,  he 
asked,  could  one  be  expected  to  pause  and  consider  such 
questions  at  such  a  time  in  such  a  place?  The  Atlantic 
thundering  on  the  rocks  below ;  the  steep  cliffs  ablaze  in 
the  sunliglit ;  the  dark  mystery  of  the  caves  ;  then  a  sudden 
whirr  of  half  a  dozen  pigeons,  the  quick  snap-shot  right  and 
left  (your  feet  tlie  while  steadying  you  on  a  ledge  not  four- 
teen inches  wide),  and  then  the  scramble  down  to  the  beach 
after  the  slain.  The  exhilaration  of  sky,  and  ocean,  and 
buffeting  sea-winds  was  fatal,  he  contended,  to  metaphysics  : 
even  the  still  small  voice  of  conscience  was  lost  in  one's 
anxiety  not  to  slip  on  the  close  crisp  turf,  and  go  headlong 
into  the  sea  below.  And  so  forth,  and  so  forth.  However 
the  conflict  may  have  gone  in  the  previous  portions  of  the 
essay,  it  was  the  pupil  of  Andy  the  Hopper  that  had  the 
last  word. 

Well,  on  the  day  following  the  publication  of  this  article, 
the  following  note  came  to  the  office : 

"Mrs.  Chetwynd  presents  her  compliments  to  the  editor 
of  the  Household  Magazine,  and  would  be  much  obliged  if 
he  would  kindly  acquaint  her  with  the  name  and  address  of 


SHANDON  BELLS.  105 

tlie  writer  of  the  papers  entitled  '  The  Confessions  of  a 
Yoii/ig  Man.' 

''  Hyde  Park  Gardens,  Monday  17th." 

Now  Fitzgerald  had  had  enough  experience  of  the  mulitiule 
of  people  who  write  to  newspaper  offices  on  the  slightest 
pretext,  and  he  scarcely  looked  at  this  note  twice.  No 
doubt ,  if  he  sent  his  name  and  address,  he  would  receive  in 
reply  a  pamphlet  by  a  member  of  the  Anti-vivisectionist 
Society,  or  an  appeal  for  a  subscription  to  the  Home  for 
Lost  l3og.s,  or  some  such  thing.  So  he  merely  sent  a  po- 
lite reply,  in  his  capacity  as  assistant  editor,  to  the  effect  that 
it  was  a  rule  of  the  office  not  to  furnish  such  information, 
and  thought  no  more  of  the  matter. 

However  the  next  day  brought  another  note. 

•*  Dear  Sir, — I  respectfully  apologize  for  my  intrusion, 
but  I  think  if  you  knew  the  circumstances  of  the  case  you 
would  not  refuse  the  request  which  my  aunt  made  to  you 
yesterday.  She  is  an  old  lady  who  has  met  with  a  great 
sorrow  ^  and  she  has  been  very  much  interested  in  the  series 
of  papers  mentioned  in  her  note,  as  recalling  to  her  some- 
tliing  of  one  who  was  dear  to  her.  I  may  say  frankly  that 
she  is  very  desirous  of  seeing  the  gentleman  who  wrote  these 
papers,  if  only  to  thank  him  for  the  pleasure  he  has  given 
her ;  and  I  am  sure  he  would  not  grudge  giving  up  a  few 
minutes  of  his  time  some  afternoon,  if  you  would  have  the 
kindness  to  forward  this  request  to  him. 
"  I  am,  dear  Sir, 

"  Your  obedient  servant, 

"  Mary  Chetwynd. 
"  Hyde  Park  Gardens,  Tuesday y" 

Fitzgerald  paid  more  attention  to  this  note,  and  even  re- 
read it  carefully — with  Kome  little  admiration  of  the  pretty 
handwriting.  No  doubt,  also,  in  other  circumstances,  he 
would  not  have  hesitated  for  a  moment  to  respond  to  this 
simple,  frank,  and  kindly  invitation.  But  the  truth  was, 
at  this  moment  he  was  in  no  mood  for  making  new  acquaint- 
ances. Not  a  word  or  line  had  come  from  Dover,  and  his 
four  shillings  had  been  reduced  to  eighteenpence.  Kitty 
was  in  Dublin ;  her  engagement  finished  ;  her  immediate 
prospects  somewhat  uncertain.  Moreover,  if  it  came  to 
that,  his  clothes  were  a  trifle  too  shabby  for   the  paying  of 


106  SHANDON  BELLS. 

afternoon  calls ;  and  so  having  written  a  formal  note  as  fi-om 
the  editor,  informing  Miss  Chetwynd  that  her  letter  had 
been  forwarded  to  the  contributor  referred  to,  he  folded  up 
the  sheet  of  note-paper  and  laid  it  aside,  considering  the 
correspondence  closed. 

Two  days  after,  he  found  among  the  letters  awaiting 
him  at  the  office  one  with  the  welcome  Dover  postmark  on 
it.     He  eagerly  opened  it. 

*'  Dear  Fitzgerald, — Don't  be  in  a  hurry.  I'll  make 
it  all  right. 

**  Yours  ever, 

*'  Hilton  Clarke. 
"  P.  S. — I  enclose  a  bit  of  copy." 

He  looked  at  that  for  some  time,  not  knowing  what  to 
think.  In  the  midst  of  his  perplexity  Mr.  Scobellmade  his 
appearance  ;  and  Mr.  Scobell  was  evidently  in  a  very  bad 
tcra]>er. 

"  I  say,  Fitzgerald,  this  won't  do  at  all,  you  know,"  said 
he  putting  his  hat  down  and  taking  a  chair.  "  I  say  this 
won't  do  at  all.     I've  stood  it  long  enough." 

"  What?"  said  the  assistant  editor,  calmly. 

"  You  know  very  well.  I'm  not  going  to  put  my  money 
into  a  thing  simply  for  the  amusemec^  of  somebody  else.  I 
say  it  isn't  fair;  I  don't  call  it  gentlemanly.  The  magazine 
is  going  down  every  week ;  I  say  the  circulation  is  going 
down  ;  and  it  never  was  much,  and  it  '11  soon  be  nothing. 
And  all  the  time  I'm  paying  my  money  to  a  gentleman  who 
amuses  himself  at  Dover.  I  won't  stand  it.  It's  false  pre- 
tences. I  pay  him ;  he's  my  servant ;  and  he  should  do 
his  work." 

" But  he  writes  there,"  said  Fitzgerald.  "I  have  just 
tliis  minute  got  an  article  in  MS.  from  him." 

"  Oh,  it's  no  use  trying  to  humbug  me " 

**  I  beg  your  pardon,  I  am  not  trying  to  humbug  you," 
said  Fitzgerald,  with  an  angry  color  in  his  face.  "And  if 
you've  got  any  complaint  to  make  against  Hilton  Clarke, 
you  might  make  it  to  himself.  I'm  not  responsible  for 
him." 

"  No,  nobody  is  responsible,  and  the  magazine  is  going  to 
the  devil !  "  exclaimed  Mr.  Scobell.  "  That's  just  it.  I'm 
losing  money  every  week,  and  nobody  is  responsible." 

Master  Willie  was  on  the  point  of  saying  that  precious 


SHANDON  BELLS,  107 

little  of  Mr.  Scobell's  money  had  found  its  way  into  his 
pocket ;  but  he  refrained. 

"  Has  Hilton  Clarke  ever  denied  his  responsibility  ?  " 
said  he,  somewhat  w^armly.  "It  is  not  necessary  for  an 
editor  always  to  be  on  the  spot.  If  the  magazine  is  not 
succeeding,  it  is  a  pity  ;  but  I  suppose  it  was  a  commercial 
speculation,  like  any  other.  I  consider  that  Hilton  Clarke 
has  put  very  good  work  into  it ;  and  his  name  as  editor  was 
of  itself  valuable " 

"  Look  here,  Fitzgerald,"  said  Mr.  Scobell,  in  a  milder 
tone,  "  I'm  not  complaining  of  you.  You  are  doing  your 
work  well  enough — and  Clarke's  too,  for  the  matter  of  that. 
You  may  stick  up  for  him  if  you  like  ;  but  what  I  say  is 
that  it  isn't  fair  of  him  to  go  and  neglect  his  business.  I 
pay  him.  Confound  it !  I  pay  him ;  he  takes  my  money, 
and  amuses  himself  at  the  Lord  Warden  Hotel.  If  you 
were  getting  his  salary,  I  could  understand  your  sticking  up 
for  him.  And  the  airs  he  gives  himself !  '  Scobell,  my  dear 
fellow.'  But  he  takes  my  money  ;  and  I'm  getting  tired  of 
it;  and  that's  the  long  and  the  short  of  it." 

"I  don't  think,"  said  Fitzgerald,  slowly,  as  if  he  wanted 
to  gain  nerve — "I  don't  think,  Mr.  Scobell,  that  if  Mr. 
Clarke  knew  you  were  discontented,  he  would  wish  you  to 
continue  the  'magazine.  He  would  probably  ask  you  to 
give  it  up  at  once." 

'^  Discontented !  "  exclaimed  Scobell,  with  a  not  un- 
natural indignation.  "  Haven't  I  a  right  to  be  discontented  ? 
Isn't  it  losing  me  money  every  week  ?  " 

"  But  that  possibility  was  before  you  when  you  started 
it,"  observed  Fitzgerald,  respectfully. 

"  Oh,  I  don't  care  about  supply  and  demand  and  all 
that  d d  nonsence,"  said  Mr.  Scobell,  somewhat  inap- 
propriately. "  Theories  don't  make  the  loss  of  money  any 
the  pleasanter.  And  I  say  to  myself,  Why  should  I  go  on 
losing  money?  I  never  proposed  to  pay  for  keeping 
Hilton  Clarke  at  the  Lord  Warden  Hotel.  That  wasn't 
spoken  of  when  I  started  the  magazine.  What  do  I  gain 
by  it  ?  It  isn't  even  known  as  my  magazine,  losing  as  it  is  ; 
it  is  Hilton  Clarke's  ;  it's  his  name  that's  connected  with  it 
in  everybody's  mouth — that  is,  when  anybody  speaks  of  it. 
But  they  don't.  They  don't  even  cut  the  edges  of  it  at  my 
club.  I  go  into  my  club,  and  I  ask  people  about  the  articles 
in  it ;  they  don't  know  anything  about  them.  I  have  men- 
tioned it  when  I  have  gone  into  sassiety ;  no  one  has  heard 


lOS  S //AND ON  BELLS, 

of  it.  Wliat  is  it  to  me  ?  What  am  I  paying  for  ?  Wh}^ 
M'lieii  I  wrote  a  paragraph  about  a  new  brand  of  champagne 
imported  by  a  particular  friend  of  mine,  I  coukln't  get  it 
printed  in  my  own  magazine  !  I  like  that !  He  struck  it 
out  without  saying  a  word." 

"  Oh  no  ;  I  struck  it  out,"  said  Fitzgerald. 

**  You  !  "  said  Mr.  Scobell,  with  an  angry  glare. 

"  lo  was  agreed  at  the  very  outset  that  there  was  to  be 
no  private  influence  like  that  brought  to  bear,"  said  Fitz- 
gerald, respectfully,  but  quite  coolly.  "  That  kind  of  thing 
is  fatal  to  a  paper.  A  single  paragraph  that  the  public 
would  suspect  would  ruin  it " 

"  How  far  off  ruin  is  it  now  ? "  said  the  other,  scorn- 
fully. 

«  Well,"  said  Fitzgerald,  "  I  did  what  I  thought  was 
right  ;  and  I  don't  want  to  shirk  the  responsibility.  I 
know  it  is  what  Hilton  Clarke  would  have  done  ;  and  I 
was  acting  for  him;  and  I  had  no  time  to  ask  him  first. 
But  if  you  are  dissatisfied  with  the  magazine  as  a  whole," 
he  continued,  formally,  "  or  with  my  share  in  it,  the  remedy 
is  simple,  as  far  as  I  am  concerned.  You  may  consider  my 
place  vacant  from  this  minute." 

He  rose.  Scobell  seemed  rather  disconcerted  for  a 
second ;  but  immediately  lie  said  : — 

"Sit  do'.vn,  Fitzgerald.  Wait  a  moment.  I'm  not 
blaming  you;  you've  done  your  best;  you've  done  all  the 
work ;  I  wish  to  goodness  we  had  started  with  you  as  edi- 
tor, and  saved  Hilton  Clarke's  salary." 

'*  Considering  that  the  idea  of  the  magazine  was  his — " 
Fitzgerald  tried  to  interpolate  ;  but  the  proprietor  w^as  bent 
on  mollifying  him,  and  would  not  be  interrupted. 

*'  What's  more,  though  I  say  it  to  your  face,  when  I 
hare  heard  any  one  in  my  own  circle  speak  of  the  maga- 
zine at  all,  it  has  been  about  those  papers  of  yours.  Mrs. 
Chetwynd  spoke  to  me  yesterday.  She  said  she  had  writ- 
t«;n  tc  you.  Now  that's  what  I  like.  I  like  to  be  con- 
nected with  something  that  is  spoken  of  among  a  good  set 
of  people.  I  confess  to  a  little  weakness  that  way ;  I  like 
to  be  able  to  say  something  about  the  magazine,  and  hear 
it  approved  by  the  best  people.  And  I  said  you  would  be 
delighted  to  call." 

"  I  didn't  know  that  was  part  of  my  duties,"  said  Fitz- 
gerald, somew^hat  stifliy. 

"  What  ?  "  replied  Mr.  Scobell,  with  a  stare. 


S HAND  ON  BELLS.  109 

**  To  go  and  call  on  strangers.  Why  should  I  call  on 
Mrs.  Chetwynd  ?     I  never  heard  of  her." 

"  God  bless  my  soul !  never  heard  of  the  Chetwynds  !  " 
exclaimed  Mr.  Scobell.  "  There  are  no  better-known  peo- 
ple in  London.  The  very  best  people  are  glad  to  know 
them.  I  used  to  meet  Mrs.  Chetwynd  everywhere  in  so- 
ciety, until  her  nephew  died.  Her  husband  you  must  have 
lieard  of;  why,  he  was  deputy-lieutenant  of  my  own  county 
before  they  made  him  Governor  of  Tasmania.  And  slie 
was  one  of  the  Cork  Barrys ;  she  was  delighted  to  hear  you 
were  a  countryman  of  hers.  Not  know  the  Chetwynds  ! 
But  you  will  be  charmed  with  tliem,  I  assure  you.  I  will 
take  you  there  myself  if  you  like." 

Not  only,  however,  did  Fitzgerald  decline  tliis  magnani- 
mous offer,  but  he  even  liinted  that  he  would  much  rather 
not  go  and  call  on  these  strangers.  He  was  not  familiar 
with  the  ways  of  London  life,  he  was  busily  occupied,  and 
so  forth.  Whereupon  Mr.  Scobell,  who  appeared  to  have 
promised  Mrs.  Chetwynd  that  she  should  make  the  acquain- 
tance of  the  young  man,  went  on  a  different  tack  altogether, 
and  appealed  to  liis  generosity.  It  appeared  that  this  poor 
old  lady  had  recently  lost  her  nephew,  in  whom  her  wJioIe 
life  had  been  bound  up.  She  had  adopted  him  as  her 
son;  she  had  left  him  in  her  will  every, ;ii"u^- belonging 
to  her — for  his  sister,  Mary  Chetwynd,  was  already  uiri|;'. 
provided  for  ;  she  had  made  over  to  him  "jy  deed. of  gift  a 
small  property  in  Cork,  on  the  shores  of  B.:rtry  Bay.  Then 
a  luckless  stumble  when  he  was  out  riding  on<j  J^  ' 
Windsor  Park  brought  an  end  to  all  the  fair  hopes  of  which 
he  was  the  centre  ;  and  since  then  the  old  lady  seemed  to 
do  nothing  but  mourn  his  memory,  while  keeping  up  a 
strange  and  keen  interest  in  the  various  pursuits  he  had 
followed.  She  knew  all  the  hunting  appointments;  she 
read  accounts  of  the  new  breech  loaders ;  she  took  in  the 
sporting  papers?  And  somehow  or  other  she  had  got  it 
into  her  head  that  those  "  Confessions  of  a  Young  Man  '' 
were  just  such  essays  as  would  have  been  written  by  this 
beloved  nephew  of  hers  if  he  had  turned  his  mind  to  litera- 
ture ;  for  tliey  were  continually  touching  on  the  sports  and 
pastimes  that  he  enjoyed.  Was  it  wonderful  that  she 
should  wish  to  see  the  writer  ?  Was  it  a  great  sacrifice  for 
him  to  give  up  ten  minutes  of  an  afternoon  to  please  an 
old  woman  who  had  suffered  much,  and  who  was  near  the 
t^rave  ?     The  upshot  of  Mr.   Scobell's  representations  and. 


110  SHANDON  BELLS. 

entreaties  v;-as  that  Fitzgerald  agreed  to  call  at  the  house 
in  Hyde  Park  Gardens  on  the  following  afternoon. 

But  until  then?  Well,  he  had  discovered  that  cocoa- 
nut  with  new  bread  was  an  excellent  thing  with  which  to 
stave  off  the  pangs  of  hunger,  and  he  had  a  few  coppers 
left,  while  in  the  evening,  on  getting  down  to  the  Fulham 
Road,  he  took  the  precaution  of  putting  out  the  light 
early,  and  slipping  off  to  bed,  so  that  John  Ross  should  not 
think  he  had  come  home.  The  worst  of  it  was  that  tLis  ex- 
treme privation  produced  deplorable  fits  of  sleeplesaness  ; 
and  as  the  brain  seems  to  take  a  pleasure  in  painting  the 
gloomiest  possible  pictures  in  the  middle  of  the  night,  the 
thing  that  haunted  him  chiefly  was  the  prospect  of  his  hav- 
ing to  visit  «i  pawnbroker's  shop.  He  thought  of  the  man 
looking  at  him ;  he  felt  his  own  self-consciousness  tingling 
in  his  face  ;  he  wondered  whether  he  should  be  suspected 
of  being  a  thief.  No  ;  he  could  not  do  that.  He  could  not 
^o  into  a  pawnbroker's  shop.  He  would  go  out  into  the 
open  streets  rather,  and  offer  to  sell  his  boots  to  the  first 
passer-by.  Besides  (this  was  the  cheering  thought  that 
came  with  the  first  gray  light  of  the  morning)  he  had  still 
some  pence  left;  and  cocoa-nut  and  bread  was  not  an  ex- 
pensive meal ;  and  who  could  tell  but  that  Hilton  Clarke 
had  at  last  taken  enough  trouble  to  reckon  up  what  was 
owing  to  him,  and  had  already  sent  it  off  ? 

About  four  o'clock  the  next  afternoon,  Mr.  Scobell 
called  at  the  ofiice  and  persuaded  Fitzgerald  to  accompany 
him  to  Hyde  Park  Gardens.  In  the  brougham,  as  they 
were  driving  up,  he  endeavored  to  impress  his  companion 
with  a  sense  of  the  advantages  of  getting  into  good  society. 
It  was  so  important  for  a  young  man.  True,  the  Chet- 
wynds  did  not  entertain  as  they  had  done  before  the  sad 
death  of  the  nephew ;  but  good  people — people  one  ought 
to  know — went  about  the  house.  Fitzgerald,  who  rather 
felt  himself  in  the  position  of  a  slave  being  carried  off  for 
exhibition,  listened  in  silence.  He  had  had  nothing  to  eat 
since  breakfast ;  perhaps  it  was  that  circumstance  that  made 
the  prospect  of  being  introduced  to  "  good  people  "  a  some- 
what intangible  benefit. 

However,  after  all,  as  it  turned  out,  he  was  glad  he 
went,  for  he  was  quite  delighted  with  this  old  lady,  whom 
he  found  propped  up  in  an  easy-chair  by  the  side  of  the 
tal  French  window.  He  forgot  all  about  Mr.  Scobell's 
pompous  patronage  of  him ;  he  ignored  his  presence  alto- 


STIANDON  BELLS,  \\\ 

ii^ether,  indeed,  for  he  was  so  charmed  with  this  little  dainty 
wliite-haired  woman,  who  talked  so  sweetly,  and  with  a 
touch  of  sadness  too,  and  who,  moreover,  had  just  the 
faintest  something  in  her  tone  that  told  him  that  she  too  in 
her  youth  must  have  heard  the  chimes  of  St.  Anne's.  Did 
he  know  Bantry  ?  she  asked.  Why,  of  course  he  did.  And 
Glengariff?  Certainly.  Bearhaven?  He  had  only  seen 
that  in  the  distance.  Perhaps  he  had  never  heard  of  Boat 
of  Garry  ? 

She  seemed  to  hesitate  a  little  as  she  mentioned  this  last 
]>lace;  and  as  Fitzgerald  was  replying  that  he  had  not 
heard  of  it — that,  indeed,  he  did  not  know  much  of  Bantry 
Bay — she  was  silent  for  a  second  or  so,  and  lie  thought 
there  was  a  little  moisture  in  her  eyes,  and  that  her  mouth 
was  inclined  to  be  tremulous.  But  that  passed  instantly. 
The  pretty  little  old  lady  grew  quite  cheerful  again  ;  she 
said  she  could  see  in  his  writing  that  he  was  what  the  Ban- 
try  people  called  a  "  great  sporter,"  and  wondered  how  he 
could  write  so  much  when  he  seemed  to  spend  all  his  life 
out  of  doors. 

"  That  is  all  over  now,"  said  Fitzgerald.  "  I've  sold 
myself  into  slavery." 

"  And  do  you  find  London  a  lonely  place  ?  " 

"  Yes,  rather." 

"But  you  will  soon  make  plenty  of  friends.  Where 
can  Mary  be,  I  wonder?" 

Just  at  this  moment,  as  if  in  answer  to  her  question, 
the  door  was  opened,  and  a  young  lady  came  into  the  room 
and  went  up  and  shook  hands  with  Mr.  Scobell. 

"Mr.  Fitzgerald,"  said  the  old  lady,  "  let  me  introduce 
you  to  my  niece." 

As  he  rose  he  found  before  him  a  tall  young  woman, 
who  had  exceedingly  shrewd  and  clear  and  yet  merry  eyes, 
a  fine  face,  handsome  rather  than  pretty,  and  with  a  good 
deal  of  decision  in  it.  Altogether  the  first  impression  pro- 
duced on  him  by  this  young  lady  was  not  entirely  sympa- 
thetic. He  liked  gentleness  in  women.  This  young  per- 
son looked  as  if  she  could  take  very  good  care  of  herself. 
However,  this  first  impression  was  modified  when  she  spoke. 
She  had  a  soft  and  musical  voice,  beautifully  modulated  ; 
and  she  talked  with  a  bright  cheerfulness  and  frankness 
that  was  pleasant  to  hear.  For  one  thing,  he  thought  it 
Btrange  that  her  dress,  which  was  scrupulously  plain  and 


112  SBA N'DON  BELLS. 

neat,  sliould  not  be  black,  seeing  that  it  was  for  her  brother 
tliat  Mrs.  Chetwynd  appeared  to  be  still  in  mourning. 

"  I  suppose  auntie  has  apologized  to  you,  Mr.  Fitzger- 
ald," said  she,  "and  I  ought  to,  also.  You  must  have 
thought  me  terribly  intrusive ;  but  I  think  our  friends  have 
spoiled  us  with  their  kindness  of  late  ;  and  soon  I  expect 
to  find  auntie  printing  on  her  cards  of  invitation,  'Mrs. 
Chetwynd  commands  the  attendance  of  So-and-so  at  five 
o'clock  tea  on  Tuesday  next.'  Really  they  are  too  kind  ; 
and  but  for  that  I  don't  know  what  my  aunt  would  do,  be- 
cause I  have  to  be  so  much  out  of  the  house  at  present. 

"  How  you  find  time  for  all  you  have  to  do,  Mary,  1 
can't  make  out,"  said  the  pleasant  old  lady.  "  You  see,  Mr. 
Fitzgerald,  I  get  blinder  and  blinder  every  day,  and  Mary 
has  to  be  my  eyes  for  me.  But  this  is  the  worst  of  it,  that 
I  am  a  silly  old  woman,  and  like  to  have  read  to  me  nice 
things.  Mary  is  of  the  younger  generation,  and  cares  for 
nothing  but  science,  and  education,  and  teaching  people 
how  many  miles  it  is  to  the  sun,  as  if  thoi'e  was  any  chance 
of  their  getting  there.  It  is  really  too  hard  on  her  ;  and  I 
can  scarcely  read  at  all  now  ;  and  the  way  she  sacrifices  her 
time " 

"  It  isn't  my  time  that  is  to  be  considered  at  all,  Mr. 
Scobell,"  said  the  young  lady,  brightly,  "  but  you  have  no 
idea  what  my  aunt  will  insist  on  my  reading  to  her.  Pretty 
stories  and  poems  of  the  affections.  I  do  believe  nothing 
would  please  her  so  much  as  a  whole  column  of  the  senti- 
mental verses — breaking  hearts  and  the  rest  of  it — that  the 
local  poets  send  to  the  country  newspapers." 

"  But  aren't  these  interesting  enough  ?  "  says  Fitzgerald, 
perhaps  conscious  that  he  himself  had  appeared  frequently 
in  that  quarter. 

"  They  are  a  little  monotonous,  are  they  not?"  said  the 
young  lady  of  the  clear  eyes,  regarding  him  with  something 
like  scrutiny.  "  A  little  too  much  of  love  and  dove,  and 
posies  and  roses  ?  " 

"  At  all  events,  they  are  human  nature,"  said  he,  with 
some  slight  flush  in  his  face.  "If  they  are  not  merely 
literary  imitations — if  they  are  the  real  expression  of  the 
hopes,  or  fancies,  or  feelings  of  the  writers,  I  can  not  ima- 
gine anything  more  interesting.  It  is  a  human  life  laid 
bare ;  and  that  to  me  is  more  interesting  than  a  frog's  foot, 
or  the  question  whether  there  is  bismuth  in  the  moon." 


SHANDON  BELLS  113 

She  regarded  him  for  a  moment  curiously.     Then  she 
rose. 

"  You  will  excuse  me,  Mr.  Scobell ;  I  have  to  get  to 

Whitechapel  by  half-past  five.      Good-bye,  Auntie  dear  !  '* 

She  kissed  her  aunt ;  she  bowed  to  Fitzgerald,  and  left 

the  room.     Fitzgerald,  without  knowing  why,  experienced 

a  sense  of  relief. 

How  pretty  this  dear  little  old  lady  looked,  sitting  in 
state  there,  with  the  warm  afternoon  liglit  lending  a  faint 
color  to  tlie  somewhat  worn  and  sad  face !  Fitzgerald 
thought  he  had  never  seen  such  silvery  hair.  And  she 
seemed  pleased  to  have  visitors ;  she  prattled  away  about 
the  things  of  the  hour,  and  what  this  or  that  distinguished 
person  was  doing ;  and  all  through,  by  a  chance  remark 
here  or  there,  she  would  remind  Fitzgerald  that  she  was  his 
countrywoman.  And  when  they  rose  to  leave,  she  made  a 
direct  appeal  to  Master  Willie  to  come  and  see  her  again 
whenever  he  had  an  idle  half-hour ;  for  she  wae  an  inquisi- 
tive old  woman,  she  said  ;  and  she  could  not  read ;  and  she 
liked  to  know  what  was  going  on. 

When  they  got  outside,  Fitzgerald's  admiration  broke 
forth. 

"  Well,  that  is  a  most  delightful  old  lady !  "  he  ex- 
claimed. "It  is  simply  delightful  to  hear  her  talk.  And 
she  seems  to  have  known  everybody  worth  knowing  for  the 
last  sixty  years." 

"Yes,"  said  Mr.  Scobell,  in  his  lofty  manner,  as  the 
footman  opened  the  door  of  his  brougham  for  liim.  "  Yes. 
They  are  a  good  sort  of  people,  the  Chetwynds.  They  are 
very  well  known  in  sassiety.  I  have  a  few  more  calls  to 
make.     Ta,  ta." 

So  Fitzgerald  set  out  to  walk  home.  He  had  had  some 
tea  and  a  piece  of  cake ;  and  that  was  cheering ;  in  fact,  it 
had  raised  his  spirits  so  much  that  he  now  resolved  that  if 
John  Ross  were  at  home,  he  would  frankly  ask  him  for  a 
share  of  his  supper  that  evening ;  and  hfe  knew  pretty  w^ell 
that  Ross  would  be  as  glad  to  give  it  as  he  to  get  it.  It 
Avas  not,  however,  his  supper  that  chiefly  occupied  his 
thoughts  as  he  walked  down  to  the  Fulham  Road.  Mca-e 
than  once  he  kept  thinking  of  Mary  Chetwynd,  and  of  her 
manner  toward  him,  and  of  what  that  could  possibly  be 
that  called  her  to  Whitechapel. 


114  BHANDON  BELLS. 


CHAf^TER  XL 

•  A   DISCLOSURE. 

Quite  clearly,  matters  were  approaching  a  climax. 
Notwithstanding  all  his  shifts  and  devices,  Fitzgerald  was 
ftt  length  forced  to  accept  a  loan  of  a  few  pounds  from  hia 
neighbor  below,  and  he  at  the  same  time  sent  an  urgent 
note  to  Hilton  Clarke,  representing  how  his  affairs  stood. 
Of  course  he  never  doubted  but  that  that  appeal  would  be 
instantly  answered. 

Days  passed ;  there  were  no  tidings  of  any  sort.  Finally 
two  letters  that  had  been  forwarded  to  the  Lord  Warden 
Hotel  were  returned  through  the  Post  Office,  with  the  inti- 
mation that  Mr.  Hilton  Clarke  had  gone  away  and  left  no 
address. 

.  Fitzgerald,  very  much  aghast,  took  these  letters  to  Mr. 
Silas  Earp.  The  heavy,  black-a-vised  manager  regarded 
them  in  his  usually  lugubrious  way,  and  merely  observed  : 

"  A  very  good  job  if  we  hear  no  more  about  him.  He 
was  only  drawing  his  salary,  and  doing  no  work." 

^'  But,"  said  Fitzgerald,  who  was  rather  bewildered — • 
"  but  he  owes  me  my  salary.  I  never  had  anything  sinco 
the  magazine  was  started  except  £10.'* 

"  That's  a  pity,"  said  the  other,  slowly.  "  I  always 
heard  he  was  fishy  about  money  matters — and  other  mat- 
ters too." 

"  I  don't  know  what  you  mean,"  said  Fitzgerald  quickly, 
**0f  course  he'll  pay  me.  I  don't  doubt  that.  But  it's 
too  bad  of  him  to  be  so  careless '* 

"  I  expect  he  h'as  spent  all  the  money  by  this  time. 
Wish  I  had  known ;  I'd  have  told  you  not  to  have  Hilton 
Clarke  in  your  debt  to  the  tune  of  twopence.  It's  a  pity  ; 
I  don't  expect  you'll  ever  see  a  farthing  of  it." 

*'  You  don't  mean  to  say  that  you  accuse  him  of  steal* 
ing  my  salary?"  said  Fitzgerald.  But  his  resentment 
against  this  implication  was  accompanied  by  a  wild  guess 
at  what  his  own  situation  would  be  if  it  were  true. 

"Oh  no,  I  don't  say  that,"  said  the  manager,  regarding 


SHANDON  BELLS,  110 

hira<  *  I  wouldn't  call  it  that.  He  wouldn't  look  at  it  in 
that  light.  But  you  ought  to  know  Hilton  Clarke  better 
than  I  do.  I  only  know  of  him  by  report ;  and  I  know  I 
wouldn't  lend  him  a  sovereign  I  couldn't  afford  to  lose." 

Fitzgerald  went  back  to  his  own  room  and  sat  down. 
It  was  not  only  the  loss  of  the  money — supposing  this  thing 
were  true — that  troubled  him.  He  could  replace  that  loss 
in  time.  But  to  think  that  this  friend  of  his,  who  had 
seemed  so  kind  and  considerate,  who  had  such  delicate  per- 
ceptions and  sympathies  in  literary  matters,  could  act  like 
a  common  vulgar  scoundrel,  and  that  in  a  peculiarly  cal- 
lous fashion — this  it  was  that  crushed  him.  But  only  for  a 
few  seconds.  He  refused  to  believe  such  a  thing.  He 
was  ashamed  of  himself  for  having  deemed  it  possible.  He 
went  back  to  Mr,  Silas  Earp  and  told  him  that  he  need  not 
mention  to  any  one  the  fact  of  Hilton  Clark's  being 
pecuniarily  indebted  to  him,  Fitzgerald,  for  of  course  the 
matter  would  be  put  straight.  The  lugubrious  manager 
regarded  him  as  if  with  a  little  sad  curiosity,  and  only 
fiaid,  "  Very  well." 

The  next  few  days  were  days  of  deep  suspense  to 
Fitzgerald,  for  he  knew  not  what  to  think  of  this  persistent 
silence.  When  the  explanation  came  it  was  short  and  de- 
cisive. One  morning  he  went  into  the  office  as  usual.  Mr. 
Silas  Earp  met  him. 

"  The  fat's  in  the  fire  now,"  said  the  manager  calmly. 
*'  Mr.  ^cobell  has  been  here  this  morning.  A  mad  bull  is  a 
fool  to  him." 

"  What  is  the  matter,  then  ?  " 

"  The  story  got  all  over  London  last  night,  he  says. 
And  the  magazine  is  to  be  stopped  this  week.  There  is 
the  announcement." 

He  handed  the  stupefied  assistant  editor  a  printed  slip 
with  these  words  underlined  in  writing ;  "  We  have  to  an- 
nounce to  our  readers  this  week  that  the  publication  of  the 
Household  Magazine  ceases  with  the  present  number." 

"  But  what  is  it  all  about  ?     What  is  the  story  ?  " 

"  Well,  I  only  got  bits,  he  was  in  such  a  rage,"  said  the 
manager.  "  It's  all  about  Lady  Ipswich,  I  believe :  and 
when  her  brother  found  her  at  last,  at  Geneva,  with  Hilton 
Clarke,  she  wouldn't  come  back,  not  a  bit.  She  says  Sir 
John  can  take  out  a  divorce  if  he  likes." 

Fitzgerald  was  staggered  but  only  for  a  moment. 

"  And  even  if  the  story  is  true,,'   he  cried,  "  what  has 


116  SHANDON  BELLS, 

that  to  do  with  the  magazine?  Why  stop  the  maga- 
zine on  account  of  it  ?  "We  never  advised  our  readers  to 
run  away  with  other  people's  wives ;  it  has  nothing  to  do 
with  the  magazine/' 

*'0h,  but  Mr.  Scobell  wants  to  smash  something  oi 
somebody,"  the  manager  said,  calmly.  "  His  wife  is  furi. 
ous;  Lady  Ipswich  was  a  friend  of  hers,"  And  then 
there's  money ;  Mr.  Scobell  thinks  Hilton  Clarke  only 
started  this  magazine  to  get  money  out  of  him — — " 

"  Oil,  that's  nonsense ! "  said  Fitzgerald,  warmly. 
"That  is  quite  preposterous  ;  Hilton  Clark  may  be  this  or 
that,  but  lie  is  not  a  deliberate  swindler.  He  wouldn't 
take  the  trouble.  He  is  too  self-indulgent.  And  then  if 
you  go  and  stop  the  magazine  now,  you  make  an  associa- 
tion between  it  and  this  scandal  that  doesn't  exist.  You 
draw  attention  to  it.     You  ask  people  to  believe " 

But  at  this  moment  Mr.  Scobell  himself  made  his  a}> 
pearance,  and  an  angry  man  he  was.  It  was  in  vain  that 
Fitzgerald  pointed  out  to  him  that  to  stop  the  magazine 
that  very  week  would  be  the  very  thing  to  make  the  public 
believe  there  was  some  connection  between  it  and  what 
had  happened.  "  Sassiety,"  Mr.  Scobell  declared,  was 
talking  of  nothing  but  this  scandal ;  and  here  was  Hilton 
Clarke's  name  outside  the  periodical  that  he  owned.  A 
nice  thing  to  have  the  editor  of  your  own  paper  run  away 
with  the  wife  of  one  of  your  own  friends,  and  lead  every- 
body to  believe  that  you  had  introduced  them  !  He*\vould 
have  no  more  of  this.  He  had  lost  enough  money,  without 
having  to  incur  scandal  as  well.  No  doubt  it  was  a  fine 
thing  for  literary  men  to  have  a  paper  go  on  forever " 

"  But  what  do  you  mean  by  that  ? "  said  Fitzgerald, 
with  a  sharpness  that  brought  Mr.  Scobell  to  his  senses, 
*'If  you  are  tired  of  the  magazine,  and  have  no  faith  in  it. 
drop  it  when  you  like.  I  was  only  anxious  you  should 
not  associate  it  with  a  merely  personal  scandal.  But  you 
needn't  talk  as  if  it  had  been  a  fine  thing  for  me.  For  all 
my  work  on  it  I  have  received  £10 ;  I  should  have  made 
more  at  sweeping  a  crossing." 

Mr.  Scobell  was  bewildered  ;  but  when  the  circum- 
stances were  explained  to  him,  he  not  only  exempted  Fitz- 
gerald from  the  vague  charge  he  had  brought  against  lit- 
erary persons  generally,  but  said  he  had  been  infamously 
treated,  and  that  as  he  might  suffer  from  the  sudden  cessa^ 
tion  of  the  magazine,  some  compensation  was  due  to  him. 


SJ/AJVDOJV  B£LL^^  ^^  '^  117 

"It  was  plunder — a  deliberate  schema  for  plunder,"  he 
maintained.  "And  he  has  done  you  as  he  has  done  me. 
It  isn't  more  than  three  weeks  since  he  got  an  extra  £100 
from  me.  It  was  a  deliberate  swindle.  He  never  cared 
about  the  magazine ;  he  never  worked  for  it ;  it  was  a 
scheme  to  get  money " 

"  It  was  nothing  of  the  kind,  Mr.  Scobell,"  said  Fitz- 
g«3rald,  bluntly  "  I  know  what  he  thought  of  the  maga- 
zine ;  I  talked  enougii  with  him  about  it.  He  expected  it 
to  be  a  great  property,  and  that  as  he  had  presented  you 
with  the  idea,  he  ought  to  have  a  liberal  salary  and  not  too 
much  work.  He  is  a  self-indulgent  man  ;  he  can  deny  him- 
self nothing.  If  you  and  I  have  lost  this  money,  you  can 
afford  to  lose  it  better  than  I  can  ;  but  there's  no  use  in 
making  wild  charges.  It  was  not  a  scheme  to  defraud  ; 
that  is  absurd.  I  think  he  was  very  soon  disappointed; 
he  didn't  care  to  work  after  that.  And  then  it  was  a  pity 
the  money  should  all  have  been  placed  in  his  hands ;  he 
always  seemed  to  think  he  had  a  right  to  everything  within 
his  reach.  And  then  I  suppose  this  opportunity — this 
temptation — was  too  much  for  him,  don't  you  see  !  "^ 

*'  Well,  you  take  it  pretty  quietly,"  said  Scobell,  al- 
most with  a  touch  of  indignation,  "  seeing  you  must  have 
lost  £60  or  £70  through  him." 

"  It  wasn't  altogether  that  I  was  thinking  of,"  said  Fitz- 
gerald.    "I  liked  him." 

Mr.  Scobell  adhered  to  his  determination  to  stop  the 
magazine  ;  but  he  sent  Fitzgerald  a  solatium  in  the  shape 
a  check  for  £25.  Thus  it  was  that  Fitzgerald  found  him- 
self with  about  four  or  five  months'  pretty  hard  work 
thrown  away,  with  much  less  money  in  his  pocket  than  he 
had  come  to  London  with,  and  without  that  friend  on 
Avhose  occasional  word  of  sympathy  or  advice  he  had 
counted.  But  he  was  not  much  dismayed,  after  all.  Other 
]»eople  had  come  to  London  and  fared  worse.  He  saw 
lots  of  things  he  thought  he  could  do — driving  a  hansom, 
if  it  came  to  that.  If  his  literary  adventures  had  so  far 
been  unsuccessful,  he  had  all  the  more  material  in  his  desk 
for  use  when  the  opportunity  arrived.  He  was  free  from 
debt,  for  he  had  taken  instant  care  to  repay  John  Ross ;  he 
could  live  on  little  ;  he  had  the  hope  and  courage  of  three- 
and-twenty ;  and  when  he  wanted  relief  from  the  cares 
and  troubles  of  the  world,  he  had  the  faculty  of  entirely- 
losing  himself  in  a  play  or  a  poem,  so  that  it  was  of  little 


118  SHANDOM  BELLS, 

consequence  to  him  whether  the  night  was  cold,  or  whetnei 
there  was  supper  in  his  room  or  not.  Besides,  was  he  not 
the  most  fortunate  of  mortals  in  the  possession  of  Kitty ! 
How  aould  a  man  be  unhappy  who  had  one  true  heart  con- 
tinually thinking  of  him,  and  cheering  him  with  messages 
of  trust  and  love  and  confidence  ? 

"My  brave  Boy"  (Kitty  wrote,  on  hearing  of  the 
catastrophe), — "I'm  very  glad.  It  will  open  your  eyes. 
It's  worth  the  money.  Why,  you'll  never  get  on  at  all  if 
you  believe  in  everybody  like  that ;  and  if  you  don't  get 
on,  what's  to  become  of  me  ?  I  saw  through  that  whited 
sepulchre  of  a  wretch  :  if  I  had  him  here  just  now  I'd  let 
him  know  what  I've  been  thinking  of  him.  And  even  now 
you  seem  disposed  to  make  excuses  for  him.  Perhaps 
when  one  person  takes  money — and  cruelly  and  meanly 
takes  money — that  belongs  to  another  person,  he  isn't  called 
a  thief  among  gentlemen.  That  wouldn't  be  refined,  per- 
haps ?  Now,  dear  Willie,  once  for  all,  it  won't  do  for  you 
to  go  on  like  that.  All  your  geese  are  swans  (including 
me).  You  have  too  much  poetry  about  you  ;  and  you  are 
too  willing  to  believe  in  people  ;  and  you  were  made  too 
much  of  about  Inislieen.  If  you  keep  all  your  poetry  for 
me,  and  make  me  wonderful  and  glorious,  that's  quite  right, 
for  that  is  just  tlie  sort  of  person  I  am  ;  but  you'll  have  to 
give  up  painting  fancy  portraits  of  other  people.  I  am 
younger  than  you  ;  but  I've  seen  a  good  lot.  But  do  you 
think  I  want  my  bonny  Coulin  to  be  hard-hearted?  No,  I 
don't.  I  want  him  to  keep  all  his  poetry  and  imagination 
for  me  ;  and  not  to  believe  in  anybody  else — further  than 
he  can  see  them ;  and  then  when  he  has  made  his  way  in 
the  world,  and  fought  people  on  their  own  terms,  then  he 
can  settle  down  and  let  liis  children  make  a  fool  of  him  to 
their  hearts  content. 

"  Willie,  there's  a  man  in  Dublin  bothering  me  with 
his  bouquets  again  ;  but  I  don't  allow  them  to  be  sent  up, 
even  when  he  manages  to  get  them  left,  and  I  haven't  even 
looked  at  his  card.  I  go  to  Belfast  on  the  13th.  My  father 
can't  imagine  why  I  don't  go  to  England ;  but  must  I  not 
remain  faithful  to  my  boy's  wishes  ?  Dear  Willie,  I  have 
read  the  verses  a  hundred  times  over  that  you  sent  me  with 
the  bracelet  on  my  birthday  but  why  are  they  so  sad  ?  I 
like  particularly  that  one  that  ends, — 

O  aching  heart,  that  sinks  or  swells 
Wlieii'er  at  night  you  hear  the  sound 
So  far  away  of  Shandon  bells  I  " 


SHAA  D ON  BELLS.  119 

But  are  you  so  very  lonely,  then,  and  only  making  believe 
to  be  comfortable  and  happy  when  you  write  to  me  ?  Really, 
when  I  see  the  people  who  haven't  an  ounce  or  an  atom  ol 
your  genius  driving  past  in  their  fine  carriages,  I  have  no 
patience.  And  they  come  to  the  concert  and  sit  in  the  stalls 
with  their  diamonds  and  opera  cloaks ;  and  the  young  men 
so  spick  and  span.  Things  are  not  right.  Wliat  can  t}i€\j 
do  ?  Can  they  do  anything  but  drive  in  the  Phoenix — the 
Phaynix  I  suppose  they'd  call  it.  Yes,  and  I  wonder  how 
long  we  may  have  to  go  on  this  way — everything  unsettled, 
and  !t  long  distance  between  us.  And  now  you  have  to  be- 
gin ail  over  again,  thanks  to  your  fine  friend.  But  if  you're 
not  afraid,  no  more  am  I ;  and  we'll  snap  our  fingers  at  them 
yet ;  and  when  everything's  quite  fair  and  clear,  and  money 
all  right,  then  you'll  publish  a  whole  volume  of  poems  tell- 
ing the  country  all  about  me  and  ray  wonderfulness  ( I  am 
wonderfu],  lean  tell  you  ;  when  I  think  of  the  way  I  bear 
up  against  your  being  so  far  away  from  me,  I  am  lost  in 
admiration  of  myself  ).  That  reminds  me  that  I  have  made 
a  conundrum.  This  is  it :  TfAy  should  my  CouUn  be  the 
happiest  tnan  in  England?  '  Now  you  may  twist  this  about 
any  way,  and  you  may  pull  it  to  pieces,  and  put  it  together 
again,  and  turn  it  upside  down  and  round  about  half  a  dozen 
times  over,  and  yet  you  would  never  find  out  the  answer. 
I  say  you  wouldn't ;  anybody  else  in  the  world  would  see 
it  in  a  moment.  It's  Because  Tm  in  love  with  him.  I 
think  this  is  very  good  ;  keep  it  a  secret. 

"  Your  obliged  and  humble  servant, 

"  Kitty.' 
London  did  not  feel  quite  so  lonely  that  evening.  There 
was  to  be  an  Irish-ballad  concert  in  St.  James's  Hall  at  eight 
o'clock,  and  this  letter  had  put  him  into  such  a  cheerful 
frame  of  mind  that  he  thought  he  would  go  away  up  there 
and  get  some  cheap  place ;  and  then,  sitting  all  by  himself, 
and  not  being  obliged  to  talk  to  any  one,  he  would  be  able 
to  hear  if  any  of  them  could  sing  the  Irish  songs  like  Kitty, 


120  SHANDON  BELLS. 


CHAPTER  XII. 

A  GO-BETWEEN. 


Two  days  after  the  public  annonnceraent  had  been  mad« 
til  at  there  was  to  be  no  more  of  the  Household  Magazine^ 
Fitzgerald  was  sitting  in  that  solitary  room  of  his,  alone. 
The  morning  was  crisp  and  clear;  there  was  a  wintry  feeb 
mg  in  the  air  ;  the  sunlight  falling  into  the  little  court  yard 
was  cheerful  enough,  even  if  the  small  pla'ne-trees  had  lost 
their  leaves.  But  it  was  not  of  the  Fulham  Road  he  was 
thinking,  now  that  he  had  put  away  from  him  the  sheet  of 
paper  on  the  table.  This  first  touch  of  the  winter  had 
awakened  dreams.  Now  the  picture  before  his  absent  eyes 
was  Kenvane  Head ;  the  blue  sea  all  murmuring;  the  vast 
caves  silent  and  mysterious ;  his  only  companion  a  saga- 
cious, quick-eyed  spaniel,  lying  with  his  nose  between  his 
paws,  and  yet  evidently  not  understanding  why  his  master 
should  thus  be  content  to  sit  and  muse,  instead  of  being  up 
and  after  the  wild  fowl.  Again  it  was  a  wild  moorland  on 
a  bitter  cold  night ;  Andy  the  Hopper  and  he  each  cramped 
up  in  a  barrel  sunk  into  the  bog;  both  breathlessly  waiting 
for  the  sudden  whirr  overhead  of  the  duck.  Or  rather  was 
it  not  of  that  wonderful  day  when  Miss  Romayne  first  con- 
descended to  go  out  into  the  open  light  of  the  streets  with 
him  ;  his  consciousness  that  all  Cork  was  looking  at  and 
admiring  her ;  the  delight  of  recommending  a  particular 
seat  on  board  the  steamer  ;  the  sail  past  the  golden  autumn 
woods,  and  the  broad  shallows  of  the  river,  out  into  the 
great,  shining,  windy  harbor,  with  its  glancing  waves,  and 
white  yachts,  and  islands  ;  her  admiration  of  a  pretty  bare- 
headed lass  at  Aghada,  whoso  hair  seemed  to  have  been 
bleached  by  the  sea  liir  and  the  sunlight  into  different  shades 
of  golden  brown,  and  Kitty's  timid  remark  that  she  thought 
his  hair  was  like  that  (followed  by  a  quick  blush,  for  their 
acquaintanceship  at  thnt  time  did  not  quite  justify  personal 
ciiticism);  and  then,  finally,  his  faithful  escort  of  her  home 
in  the  evening,  Miss  Patience  most  happily  being  confined 
to  her  house  with  neuralg  ia.  Or  was  it  of  that  other  day 
when,  at  a  later  period  of  their  intimacy,  he  had  inveigled 


S/7  AND  ON  BELLS,  121 

her  away  into  a  boat  with  him  ;  the  Atlantic  calm  and  blue  ; 
Kitty  getting  her  first  lessons  in  rowing,  and  pulling  away 
so  bravely  that  by  and  by  it  was  discovered  that  her  poor 
little  white  hands  had  become  quite  rosy  red  inside  ;  then 
fishing  off  the  deep  shelving  rocks ;  her  shriek  of  deliglit 
when  she  felt  a  tug ;  her  shriek  of  fear  when  he  hauled  in 
for  her  a  grasping  and  flopping  gurnard  ;  their  luncheon 
on  the  beach,  and  the  wonder  of  having  Kitty  wait  on  him 
and  offer  him  things ;  then  the  long  row  home,  Kitty  lying 
snugly  in  the  stern,  and  chatting,  or  laughing,  or  singing, 
as  the  mood  overtook  her,  the  while  the  Avestering  sun  sank 
slowly  toward  the  horizon,  and  the  heavens  became  a  blaze 
of  green  and  gold  and  crimson  fire,  and  tlie  clear  star  of 
the  lighthouse,  high  up  there  on  the  cliff,  shone  out  to  sea. 
On  this  wintry  morning  his  thoughts  and  dreams  were  far 
away  indeed  from  the  Fulham  Road. 

There  was  a  step  on  the  stair  outside. 

"  John  Ross  come  back  from  Cookham,"  he  thought. 

But  when,  in  answer  to  a  sharp  knock,  he  went  and 
opened  the  door,  it  was  not  the  Scotch  artist,  but  Mr. 
Scobell,  he  found  before  him — Mr.  Scobell,  looking  vory 
smart  indeed  with  his  glazed  boots,  his  dogskin  gloves,  and 
cane. 

"  How  are  you,  Fitzgerald  ?  "  said  he,  and  as  he  entered 
the  big  bare  room  he  looked  curiously  around,  for  this  was 
his  first  visit.  "  Hope  you're  not  busy.  Glad  to  find  you 
at  home.  So  this  is  your  bunk,  is  it  ?  Hum,  you're  not  so 
well  lioused  as  Hilton  Clarke  was  in  the  Albany.  Perhaps 
that  is  ])ecause  you  live  on  your  own  money,  and  not  on 
some  one  else's." 

"  I  don't  think  there's  any  use  in  going  back  on  that," 
said  Fitzgerald,  uneasily. 

*'  Oh,  you  take  it  very  easily — very  easily.  Quite  riglit 
to  stick  up  for  your  friend,  though,  if  you  look  at  it  in  that 
way.     That's  not  quite  how  I  see  it." 

He  sat  down,  stretched  out  his  legs,  and  tapped  the  tip 
of  his  boot  with  his  cane. 

"  The  fact  is,"  said  he,  calmly,  "  I  have  been  trying  tliese 
last  two  or  three  days  to  find  out  how  I  came  to  be  such  a 
fool  as  to  go  into  anything  that  Hilton  Clarke  proposed. 
But  he  is  a  dev  lish  plausible  fellow — devilish  plausible. 
There's  a  sort  of  infernal  superior  air  about  him  that  imposes 
on  people  ;  you  can't  imagine  he'd  swindle  you " 


122  SHANDON  BELLS. 

"  I  don't  think  we  need  talk  about  it,  for  we  sha'ii'* 
agree  about  it,"  said  Fitzgerald,  bluntly. 

"  Well,  he  has  made  me  dance  to  a  pretty  tune.  Do 
you  know  how  much  he  has  got  out  of  me  altogether?" 

"  You  appear  to  forget,"  said  Fitzgerald,  somewhat 
angrily,  "that  you  went  into  that  scheme  entirely  as  a 
business  matter.  It  looked  promising  enough.  You  had 
your  eyes  open.  I  suppose  if  it  had  been  successful,  if  it 
had  made  money,  and  been  socially  a  success,  there  would 
not  have  been  any  talk  about  swindling " 

"  Very  well,  very  well,"  said  Mr.  Scobell,  good- 
naturedly,  "  we  will  not  talk  about  it.  I  consider  you  have 
more  right  to  complain  than  I  have.  But  I  did  not  come 
here  to  talk  about  Clarke.  I  came  here  to  talk  about 
you." 

He  glanced  round  the  apartment ;  then  at  the  small 
table,  with  its  bottle  of  ink  and  big  sheets  of  paper. 

*'  I  suppose,  now,"  said  he,  with  an  abstracted,  dreamy 
air,  as  if  he  was  talking  of  something  a  long  way  off — "  I 
suppose,  now,  it  isn't  very  easy  to  get  on  in  literature  in 
London  ?" 

"  I  find  it  difficult  enough  ;  in  fact,  I  can't  get  on  at  all," 
said  Fitzgerald  ;  and  then  he  added,  with  a  kind  of  rueful 
smile :  ''  However,  I  have  not  quite  despaired  yet.  I  am 
trying  to  find  out  whether  it  is  my  work  that  is  bad,  or 
whether  it  is  that  the  newspapers  and  magazines  are  over- 
manned ;  or  there  is  this  possibility — that  my  work  may 
not  be  so  very  bad,  and  yet  just  miss  something  that  makes 
it  practicable  and  suitable.  Well,  I  hope  to  find  out  in 
time — and  the  sooner  the  better  for  rae.'^ 

"  Yes,  no  doubt,"  observed  Mr.  Scobell,  again  assuming 
that  contemplative  air,  "  You  have  applied  to  the  Times^ 
I  suppose  ? " 

"  No  ;  I  imagine  every  one  applies  to  the  Times^'  Fitz- 
gerald said,  "  And  then  there  is  a  great  drawback ;  I  don't 
know  shorthand " 

*'  You  can  learn " 


*•  I  ought  to  have  learned  it  long  ago.  It  takes  a  ter- 
rible time,  and  constant  practice,  they  say,  before  ycu  are 
worth  anything  to  a  newspaper.  I  ought  to  have  learned  it 
while  I  had  a  fixed  situation  in  Cork.  That  was  my  chance. 
Well,  I  lost  my  chance,  partly,  I  suppose,  because  I  had 
ambitions  beyond  newspaper-work,  and  partly  because  1 
could  get  too  easily  down  to  my  native  place,  where  there 


SHANDON  BELLS.  I03 

was  always  a  gun  or  a  rod.  Now  I  am  paying  tlie  penalty; 
for  tlie  newspapers  don't  seem  to  want  my  fine  literature, 
and  I  can't  offer  them  good  reporting." 

"  My  dear  fellow,"  said  Mr.  Scobell,  regarding  him  with 
an  air  of  the  most  magnificent  patronage,  "  I  am  delighted 
to  hear  you  talk  so  sensibly — delighted  !  You  have  com- 
mon-sense. Sooner  or  later  the  public  will  listen  to  you. 
They  will  discover  that  you  can  recognize  facts.  But  iii 
the  mean  time,"  added  this  artful  diplomatist,  with  some» 
what  greater  caution — "  in  the  mean  time,  you  see,  you 
must  make  the  best  of  it " 

"No  doubt " 

"  But  wait  a  moment.  When  I  see  you  in  such  a  reason- 
able and  sensible  way  of  thinking,  I  don't  think  I  can  do 
better  than  put  before  you  a  proposal — a  suggestion — that 
was  made  to  me  yesterday  by  Mrs.  Chetw^ynd.  Now  she  is 
also  a  person  of  common-sense.  She  is  practical,  and  she  is 
also  sympathetic.  When  she  saw  the  announcement  that 
our  magazine  had  stopped,  it  occurred  to  her  that  you 
might  have  a  little  more  time  on  your  hands  ;  and  she  sent 
for  me  at  once." 

"  Yes  ?  "  said  Fitzgerald  ;  though  he  did  not  quite  see 
what  literary  employment  he  could  obtain  from  Mrs.  Ghet- 
wynd. 

"  To  make  a  long  story  short — for  we  had  a  considerable 
talk  about  you — the  sum  and  substance  of  her  suggestion  is 
this  :  that,  if  you  had  time  to  spare  from  your  general  lit- 
erary work,  it  might  be  worth  your  while  to  accept  some 
additional  occupation  which,  with  no  great  trouble,  might 
« — ah — might,  in  fact,  increase  your  income." 

"  I  would  gladly,"  said  Fitzgerald,  without  hesitation. 
**  But  it  sounds  rather — rather  vague,  doesn't  it  ?  " 

"  Oh  no.  She  had  a  distinct  proposal.  If  you  will 
read  to  her  for  an  hour  each  day,  she  would  give  you  a 
certain  salary — small,  you  know,  but  then,  an  addition,  as 
I  suggested — in  short,  one  hundred  pounds  a  year." 

"To  read  to  her?"  said  Fitzgerald,  with  a  sudden 
flush  on  his  fo-rehead.  "  Isn't  that  more  like  the  occupa- 
tion of  a  waiting-maid  ?  " 

"  Oh  no,  certainly  not,"  said  Mr.  Scobell,  with  an  eager- 
ness which  showed  that  he  had  been  looking  forward  to 
this  objection.  "Not  at  all,  I  assure  you.  That  is  just  the 
jnistake  you  make.  What  Mrs.  Chetwynd  must  have,  first 
of  all,  is  an  intelligent  and  cultivated  reader,  who  knows 


124  SIIANDON  BELLS. 

about  politics  and  literature,  and  what's  going  on.  Very 
good  people  go  to  her  house — the  best,  indeed ;  and  she 
wants  to  know  wliat  is  going  on.  Very  well ;  the  poor  old 
lady  is  nearly  blind;  she  can't  read;  what  more  natural 
than  that  she  should  say  to  herself,  '  Well,  now,  if  I  can  find 
an  intelligent  young  literary  man  who  could  spare  me  an 
hour  or  so,  he  could  pick  out  just  such  things  as  are  im- 
j>ortant,  and  I  should  hare  the  advantage  of  his  judgment 
in  literary  matters,  and  it  might  be  some  little  help  to  him.' 
She  is  a  very  kindly  and  thoughtful  old  lady,  let  me  tell 
you,  Fitzgerald  ;  and  before  rejecting  her  offer  at  once,  you 
ought  to  think  over  it " 

"  Oh,  I  am  very  much  obliged  to  her,  and  to  you  also," 
said  Fitzgerald,  who  was  obviously  hesitating.  "And  any 
sort  of  settled  income  I  should  be  glad  to  have.  But — but 
if  all  this  is  needed,  who  has  been  reading  to  her 
hitherto  " 

"  Why,  she  told  you,  don't  you  remember  ?  "  said  Mr. 
Scobell,  who  perceived  that  he  was  likely  to  be  successful 
in  his  commission.  "  Her  niece.  Bnt  then  Miss  Chetwynd's 
personal  occupations  seem  to  take  up  more  and  more  of  her 
time.  You  have  no  idea  what  that  girl  has  on  her  hands. 
And  so  sharp  she  is — as  sharp  as  a  needle.  By  Jove,  she 
caught  me  yesterday  afternoon  as  clean  as  ever  you  saw  J 
I  said  to  her,  '  Well,  now.  Miss  Chetwynd,  I  hear  a  great 
deal  of  this  Society  of  yours,  and  of  what  you  are  doing  ii\ 
the  East  End.'  '  Oh  yes,'  she  says.  '  people  talk  of  what  a 
few  of  us  are  trying  to  do,  and  they  think  it  heroic,  and 
interesting,  and  all  that,  whereas  it  is  quite  prosaic  and 
simple ;  but  what  they  won't  do  is  to  bother  themselves  to 
give  us  the  least  help.  Well,  don't  you  know,  Fitzgerald, 
this  was  rather  a  poser ;  so  I  said  to  her — there  were  some 
very  distinguished  people  in  the  room,  mind  you — Pro- 
fessor  ,  and   Professor^ ,  and   Canon ,  and  a  lot 

more — and  I  said  to  her  that  I  wasn't  afraid  to  go  down  to 
Shoreditch,  or  Shadwell,  or  whatever  the  blessed  place  wa-s, 
and  lend  a  helping  hand  now  and  again.  I  have  plenty  of 
time  ;  I  have  a  little  spare  cash  now  and  then  ;  I  thought 
it  was  natural  enough.  No;  she  wouldn't  hear  of  it ;  I 
knew  nothing  about  the  people ;  indiscreet  charity  was  the 
worst  enemy  they  had  ;  and  so  on.  *  Well,'  I  said  to  her, 
like  an  ass  as  I  was,  '  you  must  be  very  confident,  when  you 
refuse  help  in  that  way.'  *  Oh,  but  I  don't,'  she  says,  as 
sharp  as  a  needle.     '  If  you  really  wish  to  help  us,  you  can 


SHANDON  BELLS.  \  25 

do  so  ;  you  can  buy  us  three  hundred  filters ;  we  are  very 
badly  in  want  of  them.'     Three  hundred  filters  !     And  then 

Professor  laughed,  as  if  it  was  a  great  joke ;  but  I 

can  tell  you  I  wasn't  going  to  be  jumped  upon  by  a  jackass- 
headed  old  idiot  like  that,  so  I  said,  just  as  I  might  be  talk- 
ing to  you,  *  Of  course  you  shall  have  them.  Miss  Chetwynd.' 
And  now  the  mischief  is,  I  haven't  the  slightest  notion  what 
they'll  cost — five  shillings,  half  a  sovereign,  a  couple  of 
griineas " 

"  Oh,  they  are  not  so  dear  as  that,"  said  Fitzgerald. 
"  That  one  over  there  is  a  very  good  little  filter,  and  it  only 
cost  me  half  a  crown." 

"  Haifa  crown.  Thirty-seven  pounds  ten.  Well,  if  it 
had  been  a  hundred  and  thirty-seven  pounds  ten,  I  declare 
I'd  have  paid  it  to  take  the  wind  out  of  the  sails  of  that 
lantern-jawed  old  Behemoth.  But  about  this  matter  of  the 
reading,  Fitzgerald.  I  did  not  undertake  that  you  would 
accept ;  but  I  said  I  would  try  to  persuade  you.  A  hundred 
a  year  isn't  much -" 

"  It  is  a  great  deal  to  me,"  said  Fitzgerald,  frankly. 

"Very  well.  What  is  an  hour's  time  a  day?  And 
there's  more  than  that.  The  very  best  people  in  London 
go  to  that  house,  A  young  man  ought  to  see  sassiety.  I 
think  it  is  a  great  chance " 

"  Oh,  but  I  can't  go  at  all  if  I  am  to  see  any  one  !  "  ex- 
claimed Fitzgerald,  in  great  dismay.  "I  did  not  under- 
stand that  at  all " 

"  Of  course  you  won't  see  them  while  you're  there  on 
duty — of  course  not.  But  surely  you  understand.  This 
old  lady  is  interested  in  you.  She  is  a  country-woman  of 
yours.  Something  in  your  manner,  or  accent,  or  something 
in  your  writing,  reminds  her  of  her  nephew,  who  was  just 
the  whole  world  to  her.  And  of  course  you  will  be  recog- 
nized as  a  friendly  visitor,  not  as  a  slave.  You  may  meet 
people  ;  it  is  a  great  chance  for  you.  It  is  one  of  the  very 
best  houses  in  London ;  and  it  is  not  exclusive — cabinet 
ministers,  men  of  science,  poets,  painters,  all  sorts,  as  well 
as  the  best-known  members  of  the  fashionable  world.  There 
is  no  house  in  London  more  highly  spoken  of.  My  dear 
fellow,  you  must  be  mad  if  you  think  twice. 

"Well,  I  won't  think  twice." 

"  That's  right.  And  I  said  if  you  accepted  you  would 
call  on  her  this  evening  at  six ;  all  the  visitors  will  have 
gone  by  that  time." 


126  SHANDON  BELLS. 

Accordingly,  that  evening  Fitzgerald  called  at  the  house 
in  Hyde  Park  Gardens,  and  was  immediately  admitted  and 
shown  up  to  the  drawing-room.  Instead,  however,  of  find- 
ing Mrs.  Chetwynd  there,  he  found  her  niece,  who  was 
seated  at  a  table  apparently  engaged  in  painting,  and  who 
rose  as  he  entered.  He  was  disturbed  and  vexed,  lie  knew 
not  why.  He  did  not  like  meeting  those  clear  and  penetra- 
ting eyes,  though  indeed  they  were  pretty  eyes,  and  liad 
some  touch  of  friendliness  in  them  as  she  spoke  to  liim,  and 
said  she  would  go  and  fetch  her  aunt.  It  seemed  to  him 
that  he  was  taking  over  a  woman's  work.  While  she  her- 
self Avas  addressing  herself  to  the  harder  outside  realities 
of  the  world.  That  Avas  not  a  pleasant  thought — especially 
if  it  had  also  occurred  to  her.  He  was  somewhat  relieved 
when  the  tall  clear-eyed  young  lady,  Avhose  natural  gracti 
erf  manner  somewhat  softened  the  serious  simplicity  and 
dignity  of  her  face  and  figure,  left  the  room.  Nay,  he  re- 
joiced to  think  that  he  had  caught  her  painting.  That 
was  something  pretty  and  feminine.  As  there  was  a  com- 
plete silence  outside  the  door,  he  ventured  to  approach  the 
table  where  she  had  been  seated,  to  get  a  glimpse  of  her 
work.  And  then  he  found  that  instead  of  coloring  Christ- 
mas cards,  or  finishing  up  a  little  bit  of  imaginary  land- 
scape, she  had  been  engaged  in  copying  on  to  a  magic- 
lantern  slide,  from  the  scientific  book  lying  open  there,  the 
appearance  of  a  magnified  drop  of  impure  water,  with 
the  most  ghastly  creatures  .squirming  about  within  the 
charmed  circle.  He  had  just  time  to  retreat  a  step  or  two, 
when  aunt  and  niece  entered. 

The  little  old  lady  received  him  in  the  most  gracious 
way,  and  begged  him  to  be  seated,  while  her  niece  was 
making  her  comfortable  in  an  easy  chair  by  the  fire.  That 
accomplished.  Miss  Chetwynd  took  up  her  painting  mate- 
rials and  disappeared. 

"  I  hope  I  have  not  disturbed  your  niece,"  said  Fitz- 
gerald, anxiously,  "by  calling  at  this  hour." 

"  Oh  dear  no  !  "  the  old  lady  said,  warming  hw  mit- 
tened  hands  at  the  fire.  "  Oh  dear  no.  I  dare  say  she  is 
off  to  her  magic  lantern  now.  She  means  to  frighten  some 
of  her  poor  people  into  using  filters  ;  and  your  friend  Mr. 
Scobell,  by  the  way,  is  going  to  get  her  the  filters.  She  is 
a  very  good  girl,  is  Mary;  and  very  industrious;  I  only 
hope  she  won't  catch  some  dreadful  fever  in  those  places. 
But  don't  talk  to  her,  Mr.  Fitzgerald,  if  you  please,   about 


S HAND  ON  BELLS.  127 

her  work.  She  says  there  is  too  much  talk.  Oli,  bytlie 
way,  perhaps  I  am  going  too  fast  in  assuming  thf*t  you  are 
going  to  take  pity  on  a  poor  old  blind  woman,  and  let  her 
know  what's  going  on  ?  " 

"If  I  can,"  said  he,  "but  I  scarcely  know " 

"  Oh,  but  you  shall  have  absolute  liberty,"  she  said, 
blithely.  "  You  shall  order  any  books  or  newspapers  that 
you  like  yourself ;  and  I  am  looking  forward  to  such  a 
treat ;  for  I  have  had  to  lire  so  long  on  the  dry  bones  of 
science  !  You  know,  Mr.  Fitzgerald,  Mary  is  the  best  of 
girls;  but  she  can't  help  thinking  that  I  am  interested  in 
what  interests  her  ;  and  really,  as  you  said  so  cleverly  the 
other  day,  one  gets  weary  of  the  frog's  foot,  and  would 
prefer  a  little  human  nature.  And  Mary  laughs  at  me  for 
a  silly  old  woman  when  I  have  listened  most  patiently  to 
her  Post-Office  Savings-banks  scheme,  and  her  plan  for  ven- 
tilating sick-rooms,  and  all  about  her  hospital  nurses,  and 
when  I  say  to  her,  '  Mary  dear,  just  to  go  in  to  dinner  with 
a  pleasanter  taste  in  the  mouth,  won't  you  read  me  a  chap- 
ter of  Co/ist^e^o  .^  And  really  it  is  wonderful  what  that 
girl  gets  through  in  a  day  ;  learning  herself  and  teaching 
other  people ;  and  afraid  of  no  amount  of  trouble  or  disap- 
pointment. Oh  yes,  and  I  can  see  that  her  reading  is  not 
thrown  away ;  for  sometimes,  when  the  scientifics,  as  I  call 
them,  are  here,  though  she  does  not  say  much,  you  can 
hear  that  she  has  just  hit  the  point  in  dispute;  and  they 
are  all  very  kind  to  her,  I'm  sure.  Now,  Mr.  Fitzgerald,  I 
am  so  glad  that  this  has  been  arranged ;  and  I  hope  we 
shall  try  to  make  it  not  very  irksome  to  you.  What  hour 
would  suit  you  best  ?  " 

"But  that  is  for  you,  Mrs.  Chetwynd,  to  say,"  answered 
the  young  man.  "Any  hour,  indeed,  would  suit  me  ;  fori 
have  no  definite  occupation  at  the  moment,  since  the 
Household  Magazine  was  stopped." 

'  A  quarter  to  six  in  the  evening  would  suit  me  very 
well,  then,"  said  the  old  lady.  "  For  at  this  time  of  the 
year  we  keep  open  table — a  quarter  to  seven  table  cVhote 
in  fact,  without  any  ceremony,  and  anybody  who  likes  can 
drop  in,  and  then  be  off  to  their  lectures  and  what  not. 
That  is  very  useful  for  Mary  ;  she  sees  everybody  ;  and 
has  not  got  to  sacrifice  the  whole  evening.  Well,  you  soe, 
Mr.  Fitzgerald,  if  you  could  make  it  convenient  to  call  at 
a  quarter  to  six,  and  spend  an  hour  with  the  nf  wspapers 
or  new  books,  I  should  go  in   to  meet   my  friends   quite 


128  SIIANDON  BELLS. 

coached  up,  and  then  I  shouldn't  have  to  ask  them  whether 
Queen  Anne  was  dead  or  not.  And  I  know  you'll  have 
pity  on  me,  Mr.  Fitzgerald,  and  not  clioose  books  tliat  are 
too  dreadfully  learned.  We  will  leare  the  bismutli  in  the 
moon  alone,  even  if  you  have  to  read  me  the  broken-hearted 
poems  in  the  provincial  newspapers." 

And  so,  with  a  very  pretty  little  laugli,  and  an  appoint- 
ment for  the  very  next  evening,  tliis  interview  was  conclu- 
ded ;  and  Fitzgerald,  as  he  walked  away  down  through  the 
gaslit  streets  to  Fulliam,  was  thinking  that  this  time  there 
could  be  no  mistake,  that  this  time  he  could  definitely  as- 
sure Kitty  that  he  was  in  possession  of  a  settled  income, 
however  small.  And  there  were  other  things  that  occurred 
to  him.  He  could  not  help  regarding  it  as  one  of  the  od- 
dest possible  results  of  the  conditions  of  modern  society 
that  he,  a  man,  should  have  been  constituted,  as  it  were,  the 
champion  of  sentiment  as  against  science,  and  that  his  an- 
tagonist, the  champion  of  science,  should  prove  to  be  a 
young  lady  of  very  considerable  personal  attractions.  Tlie 
situation  seemed  to  him  novel;  and  he  kept  wondering  what 
Mary  Chetwynd  thought  of  it,  if,  indeed,  she  had  time  to 
think  of  such  trivial  things  at  all. 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

NEIGHBOKS. 


To  be  a  man  of  letters  in  London — how  many  young 
people,  in  remote  corners  of  the  country,  are  at  this  present 
moment  thinking  that  there  can  be  nothing  finer  than  that, 
and  perhaps  secretly  wondering  whether  they  might  not 
risk  the  venture  and  try  to  make  such  a  career  their  own ! 
When  Fitzgerald  resolved  to  quit  the  security  of  that  pro- 
vincial newspaper  office  and  try  his  fortune  in  the  great 
capital,  he  was  fairly  equipped  for  the  enterprise.  His  ed- 
ucation, if  not  extensive,  had  been  thorough  as  far  as  it 
went;  he  was  well  read;  he  had  taken  immense  pains  in 
mastering  a  certain  simplicity  of  style  ;  he  was  familiar 
with  many  subjects  and  ways  of  life  th.at  the  ordinary 
writer,  mostly  a  dweller  in  towns,  knows  very  little  about ; 


S//A.VDOX  BEf.LS.  120 

}ie  Iind  youth,  healtli,  and  a  frank  face;  and  bis  heart  was 
fired  with  love,  which   was  likely  to  add  a  little  toucli  of 
poetical  glamour  to   his  productions.     But  his  experiences 
fell  far  short  of  his  buoyant  anticipations.     His  ignorance 
of  shorthand  barred  the  familiar  gateway  of  the  r.ewpapers. 
Then  he  found  that  those   magazines  which  were  the  most 
ready  to  accept  his  contributions  were  the  least  prompt  in 
paying  for  them.     Moreover,  he   had  sadly  to   confess  to 
himself  that  those  contributions  which  he  could  get  accepted 
were  not  literature  at  all.     They  were  mere  manufacture — 
compilations  in  the  British  Museum.     At  first  he  had  aimed 
at  something  higher.     Disregarding  Hilton  Clarke's  dispar- 
agement of  criticism,  he  had  made  some  careful  studies  of  one 
or  two  of  the  pre-Shakspearean  dramatists  :  no  editor  would 
look  at  them.     Then  he  tried  essays  on  social  and  domestic 
subjects;  but  every  avenue  seemed  to  be  blocked.     Occa- 
sionally he  had  the  satisfaction  oi  finding  a  bit  of  translation 
from  Catullus  or  Horace  accepted  ;  though  he  rightly  judged 
tliat  magazine  editors  looked  on   such  things  as  handy  for 
filling  up  half  a  page.     No,  there  was  no  lielp  for   it ;  he 
might  cultivate  the  higher  literature   for  his  own  satisfac- 
tion, but  if  he   wanted  to    supplement  that  one   hundred 
pounds  a  year  he  was  now  in  receipt  of,  and  so  be  able  to 
write  hopeful  letters  to  Kitty,  what  he  had  to  sit  down  and 
compose  was  a  useful  little  paper  on  "  The  Successive  Dis- 
coveries of  Kaolin,"  or  '•  The  origin  of  the  English   Race- 
Horse,"  or  some  such  practical  subject.     It  was  not  litera- 
ture ;  but  it  brought  Kitty  a  little  nearer. 

John  Ross  was  doing  him  a  mischief.  It  was  all  very 
well  for  the  Scotch  artist  to  take  this  young  companion  of  his 
about  with  him,  and  give  him  a  new  pair  of  eyes,  and  color  up 
the  world  for  him;  but  unconsciously  to  himself  Fitzgerald 
was  adopting  in  his  own  work  Ross's  way  of  looking 
at  things.  Ross  was  purely  and  simply  an  impression- 
ist ;  a  vivid  suggestion  was  what  he  aimed  at,  careless 
of  subsequent  detail  or  even  precise  accuracy  of  form.  And 
it  wa.s  so  delightful  to  Fitzgerald  to  walk  abroad  with  this 
man,  and  see  the  commonest  things  in  the  world  intensified 
with  a  new  interest,  that  he  insensibly  yielded  to  the  fasci- 
nation, and  forgot  that  he  was  a  writer  and  not  a  painter. 
The  objects  of  life  became  to  him  so  many  pieces  of  color ; 
when  lie  looked  at  a  long  terrace  of  buildings  shining  clear 
on  a  summer's  day,  it  was  not  to  guess  at  the  rent  of  the 
houses,  or  wonder  whether  they   were   well   drained,   or 


J  :iO  SHANDON  BELLS. 

whether  there  were  any  sick  people  there  unable  to  corae 
out  into  the  sunlight,  but  to  observe  that  the  warm  bri'liant 
3uass  of  yellow  made  the  blue  above  more  intense.  It  the 
life  of  a  man  of  letters  in  London,  so  far  as  he  had  experi- 
ence of  it,  was  disappointing  and  prosaic,  these  occasional 
walks  with  his  artist  companion  brought  back  some  poetry 
into  the  world.  "lo  anche  son  pittore,"  he  might  have 
said,  so  wonderfully  did  his  faculty  of  observation  develop 
imdcr  this  rough-and-ready,  quarrelsome,  enthusiastic  tute- 
lage ;  but  he  was  much  too  wise  to  attempt  anything  with 
the  brush. 

*'  Man,"  said  John  Ross  to  him  one  day,  as  they  were 
walking  out  in  the  suburbs,  "  what  a  grand  thing  it  must 
be  to  be  like  you  !  " 

*'  Oh,  indeed,"  said  Master  Willie,  whose  fortunes  did 
not  seem  to  himself  to  be  so  flourishing. 

"Ay,  just  to  be  able  to  look  at  the  things  that  nature 
puts  before  ye,  and  never  to  have  a  thocht  o'  how  ye're 
going  to  make  money  out  o'  them.  What  would na  I  give 
to  be  a  laddie  again,  just  for  an  hour,  and  lie  down  on  a 
warm  bank  in  the  sun,  and  watch  the  clear  waters  of  the 
burnie  twirlin'  round  the  stanes,  and  the  speedwells  on  the 
banks,  and  the  red  rowans  on  the  trees,  and  everything  like 
that,  and  just  to  let  your  eyes  drink  it  in  without  even 
thinking  of  the  infernal  pent-box  ?  Man,  it's  a  terrible 
thing  to  have  to  go  through  the  world  just  conteenually 
warslin'  wi'  tubes  o'  colors.  There's  no  two  things  that  I 
see  thegither  that  I  hav'na  to  take  the  balance  of;  it's  a 
disease — confound  it!  it's  a  disease.  I'm  a  man:  why 
shouldna  I  be  allowed  to  go  through  the  world  and  look  at 
it  like  another  man  ?  It's  a  pent-box  that's  the  millstone 
round  my  neck.  Why  should  I  care  about  they  palings  ?  " 
ho  said,  as  they  were  passing  a  cabbage  garden.  "  I'm  not 
going  to  pent  them !  What  is  it  to  me  what  color  they 
are  ! '» 

"  Well,  that  can't  bother  you  anyway,"  says  Fitzgerald, 
with  a  laugh,  "  for  they  liaven't  any  color." 

"  Dinna  be  so  sure  about  that,  laddie,"  said  the  other, 
*'  Yq  think  they're  gray,  I  suppose  ?  " 

"Well,  aren't  they?' 

"  Oh,  ay.  No  doubt,  if  ye  took  a  bit  o'  the  wood  in 
your  hand,  ye  would  find  it  gray  and  colorless  enough.  But 
just  you  try  to  fix  your  eyes  on  the  wooden  palings,  and  on 


SHANDON  BELLS  131 

the  violent  greens  o'  the  cabbages  at  the  same  time.    Is  the 
wood  quite  so  gray  ?  " 

"  No,"  Fitzgerald  had  to  admit.  ''  Not  quite  so  gray. 
In  fact,  rather  lilac,  isn't  it  ?  \x\  fact,  it  is  quite  a  pinkish- 
lilac,  if  you  look  at  the  two  together." 

'■'-  Ay,  and  that's  what  ye've  got  to  pent,  ray  laddie.  But 
if  people  '11  no  buy  my  pictures  of  Cookham,  they're  no 
likely  to  buy  a  picture  of  a  cabbage  garden  in  Chelsea." 

"  But,  after  all,"  Ross,  said  his  companion,  "  writing  peo- 
ple are  just  as  badly  off  as  painting  people,  for  they  have 
to  keep  watching  and  watching " 

'•  But  they  hav'na  to  warsle  wi'  the  pigments,  man,"  the 
other  said,  impatiently.  "  When  ye  see  a  thing  is  yellow,  ye 
say  it's  yellow,  and  there's  an  end  ;  but  the  penter  has  got 
to  get  that  ])articular  quality  out  o'  an  infernal  tin  tube, 
and  even  then  put  it  into  all  sorts  o'  relations  with  the 
things  round  it.  I  wish  to  Heaven  I  had  been  brought 
up  a  penter  o'  shop  doors  and  shuttero,  and  I  could  have 
had  my  own  way  wi'  fine  color,  and  naething  stepping  in 
to  spoil  it." 

"  It's  all  nonsense  your  complaining  like  that,"  Fitzger- 
ald said,  finally.  *'  Instead  of  complaining,  you  ought  to  be 
thankful.  The  difference  between  you  and  other  people  is 
that  you  have  trained  yourself  to  see  more.  You  see  beau- 
tiful things  at  every  turn,  where  they  see  nothing.  Is  there 
any  advantage  in  being  partially  blind  ?  " 

Had  John  Ross  kept  more  closely  to  his  studio  in  the 
Fulham  Road,  no  doubt  Fitzgerald's  life  at  this  time  would 
have  been  a  pleasanter  one.  But  he  was  much  away ; 
especially  when  he  had  got  a  few  pounds  for  a  sketch  ; 
and  his  neighbor,  up  there  in  a  solitary  room,  felt 
the  winter  nights  to  be  long  and  dark.  The  hour 
spent  in  reading  and  talking  to  Mrs.  Chetwynd  was 
the  bright  spot  of  the  day ;  when  lie  returned  to  his 
lonely  lodgings  and  this  almost  hopeless  manufacture  of 
articles  in  which  he  took  nothing  but  the  most  perfunctory 
interest,  sometimes  the  world  seemed  to  weigh  heavily  on 
him.  But,  curiously  enough,  it  was  always  at  such  mo- 
ments, when  circumstances  seemed  to  hem  him  in,  when  the 
battle  of  life  appeared  to  be  going  against  him,  when  the 
future  seemed  growing  dark  indeed,  that  his  imagination 
broke  through  these  toils  and  carried  him  into  a  sphere  of 
creation  where  his  work  was  a  joy  to  him.     No  matter  how 


1 32  SII  i ND ON  BELLS. 

insignificant  the  result  might  be  ;  it  was  the  expression  ol 
something  within  him  that  he  liimself  could  not  well  under- 
stand ;  it  was  not  of  the  slightest  consequence  to  him  what 
editors  might  think  of  it.  One  night,  for  example,  he  was 
laboring  away  at  an  article  on  "  Some  Particulars  of  the 
Earthquake  at  Lisbon."  He  had  been  for  two  days  at  the 
British  Museum  ;  and  he  had  copious  notes  before  him. 
He  was  trying  to  make  the  picture  as  graphic  as  he  could  ; 
but  it  was  distressing  work  ;  and  he  did  not  even  know 
where  to  send  it  when  he  had  it  finished.  Suddenly  he 
heard  a  slight  hissing  sound  in  the  fire — like  that  produced 
by  rain  falling  down  tiie  short  chimney.  But  he  could  hear 
no  sound  of  rain  on  the  slates.  lie  went  to  the  window  ; 
there  was  an  absolute  silence ;  but  there  were  dark  streaks 
crossing  the  orange  glow  of  the  lamp  in  the  courtyard. 
He  opened  the  window  and  put  out  his  hand  :  it  was  stung 
by  the  sharp,  moist  touch  of  snow.  And  then  what  must 
he  needs  do  but  hastily  put  on  his  cap  and  issue  out  mto 
the  dark  to  feel  this  soft  thing  blowing  all  about  him — 
touching  his  lips,  his  eyelaslies,  his  hands — this  soft,  silent 
tiling  that  made  a  wonder  of  the  lonely  streets.  He  wan- 
dered on  and  on  in  a  sort  of  ecstasy ;  voices  seemed  calling 
1,0  him  from  the  past;  he  knew  not  whether  to  laugh  or  to 
ny.  His  blood  tingled  with  joy  at  the  presence  of  this 
)evv  strange  thing;  and  yet  tiiere  was  a  kind  of  despair,  as 
f  he  yearned  for  some  one  far  away  ;  and  there  was  a  doom 
Dortending;  an  agony  of  love  and  terror  and  appeal, 
riien  a  phrase  here  or  there  ;  and  it  was  a  lover  who  spoke  ; 
■ind  the  voice  of  the  sea  could  be  heard  now  in  the  awful 
caves.  Quite  blindly,  like  one  in  a  dream,  and  not  heeding 
the  snow,  he  made  his  way  back  from  the  dark  lanes  to  his 
room,  and  almost  mechanically  he  sat  down  to  his  writing- 
table.  He  saw  somethiiig  before  him  not  the  least  like 
what  he  had  seen  outside.  It  was  more  like  the  sea,  and 
darkness,  and  the  wild  Irish  coast.  And  with  an  impatient 
cast  here  and  there  for  a  rhyme,  and  all  trembling,  and  even 
scarcely  knowing  the  value  of  the  phrases  he  was  using,  he 
put  down  on  paper  what  seemed  to  him  the  voice  of  some 
one  else,  that  he  could  hear  far  off  in  the  night : — . 

"  The  wild  March  winds  are  blowing;" 
The  trees  are  dark;  the  skies  are  gray 3 
O  love,  let  us  be  going — 
The  evening  gathers:  far  the  way. 


SHANDON  BELLS.  .;  133 

"  Oh,  do  you  hear  the  thuuder 
On  Daramona's  rocky  isle — 
The  wild  seas  sweeping  under 
The  ghostly  cliffs  of  black  Glengyle  ?" 

He  rose,  with  a  quick  kind  of  sigh,  pushed  the  paper 
away,  and  began  mechanically  to  knock  the  snow  from  his 
sleeves  and  his  coat.  Then  he  went  to  the  fire,  and  lit  a 
pipe,  and  stared  into  the  red  coals  as  if  he  expected  to  see 
more  pictures  there.  And  then,  after  a  time,  he  went;  back 
to  the  table,  and  took  up  the  bit  of  paper,  and  calmly  and 
critically  regarded  what  he  had  written. 

"  Yes,"  he  said  to  himself.  "  That's  it.  That's  true.  I 
will  keep  that  for  myself.  There  isn't  an  editor  in  London 
would  give  me  twopence  for  it  anyway ;  and  the  public 
would  ask  where  the  story  was;  but  it  has  got  to  stand  just 
as  it  is ;  it  is  a  bit  of  my  personal  property  for  Kitty  to  in- 
herit when  she  becomes  a  widow." 

Just  as  he  was  putting  away  the  bit  of  paper  into  the 
desk,  Avhich  co.itained  a  very  considerable  quantity  of 
similarly  useless  scraps,  a  noise  was  heard  below ;  and  Fitz- 
gerald's heart  jumped  up  at  the  notion  that  perhaps  John 
lioss  had  come  back  from  Sonning,  where  he  had  been  for 
a  fortnight.  There  was  a  ready  means  of  ascertaining.  He 
took  the  poker  and  knocked  twice  on  the  floor.  In  response 
there  were  three  knocks  on  the  roof  of  the  studio.  Then 
Fitzgerald  made  his  way  down  the  slippery  steps,  and 
caught  Ross  as  he  was  in  the  act  of  lighting  his  stove. 

"  No,  no  ;  let  that  alone,"  he  cried.  "  I've  got  a  blaz- 
ing fire  in  my  bunk.  Come  along  up.  Man,  I've  got  some 
sheep's  tongues  that  '11  make  your  mouth  water,  and  a  yard 
of  French  bread ;  only*  you  must  bring  some  whiskey  with 
you.  Come  along  ;  I  want  to  hear  all  about  Sonning,  and 
I  won't  ask  you  to  show  me  your  sketches." 

"  Ye're  in  a  cheerfu'  frame  of  mind,  laddie,"  said  Ross, 
looking  up.     "  Have  ye  been  drinkin'  ?  " 

"No;  what's  worse,  I've  been  neither  eating  nor  drink- 
ing, and  I'm  desperately  hungry." 

"  And  so  am  I.     Have  ye  got  any  tobacco  ?  " 

"  Plenty." 

"  Wait  a  minute,  then." 

He  went  and  got  a  cloth  and  dusted  the  snow  off  the 
packages  he  had  brought  in ;  and  then  he  followed  Fitz- 
gerald up  the  staircase,  and  was  soon  engaged  in  helping 


131  SHANDON  BELLS. 

him  to  lay  the  cloth  of  the  supper  table  and  open  the  bot- 
tles, and  what  not. 

"  But  I  want  to  ken  what  lias  put  ye  in  such  fine  fettle, 
man,"  he  said  at  length,  regarding  his  companion  from 
across  the  table.  "Some  young  lass  in  Ireland,  I  suppose, 
has  been  sending  ye  a  true-love  knot.  Poor  thing  !  a  lassie 
should  never  let  her  sweetheart  get  so  far  away  as  this ;  it's 
no  safe." 

*'  It  isn't  that,  though.  Fve  written  something  I  am 
pleased  with  ;  something  I  am  going  to  keep  for  myself," 
said  Fitzgerald,  frankly. 

"  I-et  us  see  it,  then." 

*'  Oh  no.     It  wouldn't  please  any  one  else,  I  know." 

"  Then  wdiat  is  the  use  of  it  ?  " 

"  None." 

"  And  ye  are  going  on  amusing  yourself  with  capers 
instead  of  getting  money  and  furnishing  a  house  for  the 
lass.     Is  that  what  ye  mean  ?  "  said  the  other,  severely. 

"  What  lass  ?     What  are  you  talking  about  ?  " 

"  I  have  my  suspicions,  my  lad.  But  let's  see  what  this 
is." 

"  Oil,  very  well,"  said  Fitzgerald,  at  once  going  and 
fetching  the  sheet  of  scrawled  paper. 

John  Ross  bent  his  brows,  and  proceeded  to  read  the 
verses  line  by  line,  which  was  an  exquisite  piece  of  torture 
for  the  writer  of  them. 

"  Where  is  Daramona  ?  "  said  he,  abruptly. 

"  I  don't  know." 

When  he  had  finished,  he  looked  at  it  carefully  again, 
and  said,  in  rather  a  peevish  sort  of  way  "  Well,  but  have 
ye  nothing  more  to  tell  us  ?  " 

"No." 

"  It's  a  ghastly  picture  enough ;  oh,  ay,  I  admit  that ; 
but — but  what  is  it  about  ?  " 

"  I  told  you  you  wouldn't  be  pleased  with  it,"  said 
Fitzgerald,  without  any  resentment. 

"  Ye  might  make  some  story 

"  Oh  yes,  I  know  quite  well.  I  know  what  an  editor 
would  want.  There  would  have  to  be  a  third  verse,  w4th 
two  dead  bodies  washed  up  by  the  sea  somewhere  ;  or  some 
definite  thing  like  that.  Well,  I  am  going  to  keep  it  as  it 
is — of  no  use  to  any  one  but  the  owner." 

John  Ross  was  not  satisfied.  He  looked  at  the  verses 
again,  and  then  grumbled  : 


S  HAND  ON  BELLS.  135 

"it's  a  good  suggestion — it's  a  capital  suggestion.  But 
why  dinna  ye  follow  it  out  ?  " 

'"  Some  people,"  said  Master  Willie,  slyly  ;  "  might  hint 
that  about  some  of  your  sketches ;  and  yet  you  won't  alter 
thern." 

"God  bless  me!"  cried  the  other,  staring  at  him. 
"  Has  the  laddie  gone  daft?  Writin'  is  not  pentin',  man  ! 
Do  ye  think  the  public  are  going  to  take  the  trouble  to 
make  a  story  for  themselves  ?  " 

"  I  don't  mean  to  ask  them,"  said  Fitzgerald,  simply. 
"That  is  only  a  little  bit  for  my  own  private  satisfaction. 
Won't  you  allow  me  as  much  as  that  ?  I  don't  find  that 
eager  competition  among  editors  and  publishers  for  my 
work  that  I  should  like.  I  think  the  world  could  get  on 
without  literary  people— especially  literary  beginners." 

But  he  himself  seemed  to  detect  some  kind  of  false  note 
in  this — some  echo  of  what  Hilton  Clarke  might  have  said. 
So  he  added,  frankly  : — " 

"  No,  I'm  not  going  to  give  in  yet.  And  I  have  got 
hold  of  a  subject  that  1  think  might  do." 

"  What  is't  ? "  said  his  companion,  filling  his  pipe. 
''  No  too  big,  I  hope.     Something  practical  ?  " 

<'Well,  you  know,  when  you  were  up  the  Thames,  my 
suppers  here  were  a  little  bit  lonely,"  Fitzgerald  proceeded 
to  say,  as  he  also  drew  in  a  chair  to  the  fire.  "  And  I  dis- 
covered that  you  could  get  a  plate  of  cold  meat,  or  a  bit  of 
fowl,  and  a  glass  of  ale,  at  the  Green  Man,  for  sixpence. 
That  again  entitled  you  to  go  into  the  parlor  and  have  a 
smoke.  1  went  in,  and  made  a  discovery.  There  are 
cronies  who  come  there  every  evening  and  discuss  the 
affairs  of  the  nation.  My  goodness!  I  have  heard  extra- 
ordinary statements  made  in  the  smoking-rooms  of  inns, 
but  never  anything  quite  so  fine.  And  of  course,  as  a 
stranger,  I  had  to  sit  quiet  and  listen;  but  what  I  was 
thinking  was  that  there  must  be  a  large  population  in  this 
country  who  get  their  ideas  and  information  from  sources 
that  the  governing  classes  don't  know  anything  about. 
What  are  they,  then  ?  Not  the  ordinary  daily  papers,  for 
I  read  them.  And  this  isn't  the  only  bar-parlor  or  smok- 
ing-room I've  been  in  ;  and  it  seemed  to  me  that  a  series 
of  articles  on  ])ublic-house  politics  might  really  be  of  use. 
These  men  have  votes." 

"Ay,  the  sources  of  their  information,  did  ye  say?'* 
eaid  Ross,  grimly.     "  Their  own  heads,  maybe," 


J  VS  SFTANDON  BELLS. 

"  But  then,"  urged  Fitzgerald,  "  when  you  hear  a  man 
make  the  absurd  est  statement — about  the  Prime  Min- 
ister having  written  so-and-so  to  the  Pope — and  when 
lie  declares  he  saw  the  letter  in  print,  and  when  everybody 
accepts  the  statement,  you  begin  to  ask  how  such  stories 
can  gain  currency " 

"The  impudence  o'  the  one  man,  and  the  ignorance  o' 
the  ithers,  I  should  tliink,"  said  Ross. 

"  No;  for  these  things  are  talked  of  as  matters  of  com- 
mon knowledge ;  and  yet  the  ordinary  organs  of  public 
opinion  know  nothing  of  them — indeed,  they  are  quite  pre- 
posterous. You  know,  my  father  keeps  an  inn.  I  did  not 
go  much  into  the  smoking-room ;  but  I  heard  tilings  from 
time  to  time ;  and  you  would't  believe  the  stories  that  are 
commonly  accepted  about  the  royal  family,  the  members  of 
the  government,  the  House  of  Lords,  and  so  on •" 

"  You're  right  there,"  Ross  said.  "  I  would  not  believe 
them." 

"  The  old  gentlemen  who  meet  at  the  Green  Man  are 
very  loyal  at  all  events,"  Fitzgerald  continued.  "  Will 
you  cojne  round  to-morrow  night  and  listen  to  them  ?  Oh 
no;  you'd  better  not;  they  don't  talk  over  respectfully 
about  Scotchmen." 

"I'll  come  round  wi'  ye,  laddie,  if  ye  like;  but  what  I 
want  to  know  is  how  ye're  yoing  to  get  any  bread  and  but- 
tar  out  o'  writing  down  the  idiocy  of  a  lot  of  bemuddled 
?»uld  beer-drinkers." 

"But  they  have  votes,"  continued  Fitzgerald.  "And 
there  are  thousands  and  thousands  of  them  throughout  the 
country  ;  and  their  opinions  spread  ;  and  surely  it  is  of  im- 
portance to  knovr  what  they  are  saying.  If  it  is  absurd,  if 
it  is  ludicrous,  so  much  the  better  for  me.  I  don't  see  why 
a  solemn  discussion  on  the  only  lit  and  proper  way  to  gov- 
ern Frenchmen,  by  these  profound  students  of  history, 
should  not  be  made  amusing  enough." 

"Oh,  that's  it,  is  it?  Ye  go  and  get  admitted  into  a 
brotherhood  o'  philosophers,  and  ye  watch  and  wait,  and 
then  when  they  are  warmed  into  friendship  and  confidence 
wi  their  pipes  and  their  ale,  and  when  their  poor  wander- 
ing old  wits  begin  to  dance  and  stagger  'about  a  bit,  then 
ye  begin  your  thumb-nail  sketches — you,  sittin'  in  the 
corner.  Why,  man,  it's  like  making  a  fool  o'  your 
fayther." 

*'I  think  it's  a  very  good  thing,"  said  Fitzgerald,  with  a 


SHAND ON  BELLS.  137 

laiigli,  "  that  the  one-half  of  the  world  should  know  what 
the  other  half  are  saying." 

"Get  away  wi' ye  !  "  said  Ross,  resentfully.  "Do  ye 
mean  to  tell  me  ye  will  give  a  fair  and  honest  report  ?  Do 
ye  mean  to  tell  me  there  will  be  anything  but  jibs  and 
jeers  and  gross  misrepresentations  ?  And  you,  a  laddie 
just  out  of  school,  to  make  fun  o'  men  o'  mature  years,  who 
have  pondered  over  the  course  of  the  world's  way ;  and 
learned  the  lessons  of  life  from  A,  B,  C,  to  X,  Y,  Z  !  That 
is  a  nice  work  to  undertake !  Father  of  families,  with  the 
work  o'  the  day  over,  and  maybe  glad  to  get  away  for  an 
hour  from  a  scolding  wife,  and  doing  their  best  for  their  coun- 
try in  talking  over  public  affairs,  and  enjoying  a  quiet  glass 
in  warmth  and  security — and  to  have  this  Mephistopheles 
there  wi'  liis  note-book " 

"  If  you  were  to  come  with  me  for  anight  or  two,"  said 
Fitzgerald,  "you  might  make  a  few  sketches.  There  are 
some  splendid  heads — of  the  regular  old  Joitn  Bull  type, 
with  a  churchwarden  added.  Then  we  could  make  a  book 
of  the  reprinted  articles,  with  your  sketches  of  the  people." 

His  companion  glanced  at  him. 

"  Your  brain  is  quick,  laddie,  for  new  projects." 

"But  that's  what  they  come  to,"  said  Master  Willie, 
indicating,  somewiiat  sadly,  his  open  desk.  "They  are  all 
nicely  tied  up  there,  in  wrappers,  and  addressed  to  myself." 

"  There's  a  mine  o'  wealtli  in  that  desk,  man,"  said  Ross, 
sharply.  "  Y/hen  I  am  an  Academeecian,  and  you  are  the 
editor  of  a  daily  newspaper,  we'll  both  find  out  the  value  o' 
they  sketches,  in  that  desk  there,  and  in  my  studio  below 
Have  I  no  told  ye  that  already  until  I'm  tired  ?  Ye  are 
in  too  great  a  hurry,  man.  Some  day  ye'U  be  glad  enough 
to  get  hold  o'  these  ideas  that  ye  are  flinging  about  the  now." 

"Some  day?"  echoed  Fitzgerald.  "  But  in  the  mean 
time  ?  " 

"  In  the  mean  time,"  said  he,  rising  and  putting  on  his 
big  cloak  and  his  cap,  "  I'm  going  down  below  to  my  bed. 
And  in  the  mean  time  begin  your  Teniers  sketches,  and 
good  luck  to  ye  ;  and  dinna  fash  yourself  about  what's  be- 
fore ye,  so  long  as  ye've  meat,  drink,  and  clothes ;  and  if 
there's  a  j'onng  lass  in  the  case,  as  I  jalouse,  tell  her  no  to 
drive  any  man's  cattle,  but  to  wait  and  give  the  world  it's 
ain  time  to  turn.  Good-night,  laddie,"  he  said,  as  he  opened 
the  door  and  looked  out.  I'm  glad  there's  no  moor  to  cross 
on  a  nitxht  like  this." 


138  SHANDON  BELLS, 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

TWO   LETTERS. 


"  To  MY    TRUSTY    AND    WELL-BELOVED    COULIN,  ThESE, 

-—It  is  quite  true,  my  dear  Willie,  that  my  letters  to  you 
have  been  very  short  lately ;  but  you  have  no  idea  how  I 
have  been  bothered  and  worried  in  coming  to  terms  about 
that  other  tour  in  the  South,  and  then  I  have  had  to  try  and 
pacify  papa.  He  has  taken  it  into  his  head  that  he  ouglit 
to  know  more  about  you,  and  our  '  prospects.'  Isn't  that 
a  horrid  word  ?  It  is  like  *  matrimony,'  or  '  nuptial  settle- 
ments,' or  something  in  a  lawyer's  office.  I  tell  him  that  we 
are  not  going  to  do  anything  rash ;  that  I  for  one  am  quite 
content  to  be  as  I  am  ;  and  when  he  writes  long  letters 
about  the  importance  of  being  settled  in  life,  and  the  possi- 
bility of  his  not  being  long  in  the  w^orld,  what  can  I  do  but 
gently  remind  him  that  I  have  earned  my  own  living  for  a 
good  many  years,  and  have  no  great  fear  of  being  unable  to 
do  so?  Poor  dear  papa,  he  is  very  kind,  but  he  worries 
dreadfully.  And  really  I  don't  know  what  to  say  to  him. 
If  you  were  still  the  sub-editor  of  that  poor  defunct  maga- 
zine, that  would  be  something  definite.  Shall  I  tell  him 
you  are  private  Secretary  to  a  great  lady?  Of  course  I  too 
Avish  you  had  something  more  settled ;  but  do  not  imagine, 
d.ear  Willie,  that  I  am  grumbling;  for,  after  all,  are  we  not 
just  as  well  off  in  every  respect  as  we  w^ere  before  we  ever 
eaw  each  other,  and  why  should  we  not  be  quite  content 
with  tilings  as  they  are  ?  I  hate  w^riting  like  this.  It  is 
like  drawing  out  a  marriage  contract.  If  you  were  here 
just  for  two  minutes — I  can  imagine  your  coming  in  at  the 
door  over  there,  and  looking  round  to  see  that  Miss  Patience 
was  not  in  the  room — we  should  understand  each  other  at 
once.  And  if  you  were  at  the  open  door  now,  do  you  think 
I  would  be  long  at  this  table  ?  Don't  you  think  I  might 
meet  you  half-way,  even  if  the  ink-bottle  were  to  be  sent 
spinning  across  the  floor  ?  And  you  to  talk  of  the  coldness 
of  my  letters  ! 

"  Beside  all  that  worry  I  have  been  hard  at  w^ork  with 
Professor -;  and  fancy  the  difficulty  of  doing    that  by 


SHANDON  BELLS.  139 

correspondence  !  He  sets  me  the  most  terrible  tasks  ;  and 
as  it  is  all  science  and  no  sound,  it  is  not  very  lively.  But 
really  when  you  look  at  some  of  the  songs  that  are  mos.t 
popular  now  in  drawing-rooms — the  air  some  common 
phrase,  or  perhaps  borrowed,  and  of  course  changing  to 
minor  in  the  second  part,  and  the  accompaniment  a  few 
simple  chords,  only  fit  for  children's  practising — it  seems 
possible  for  one  to  do  something  a  little  better.  And  then 
shouldn't  I  like  to  be  able  to  set  one  of  your  songs  to  music 
— I  mean  something  like  proper  music  ;  I  think  I  should 
not  jjrumble  over  studying  the  counterpoint  of  that  accom- 
paniment. Do  you  think  I  would  charge  my  Coulin  a  heavy 
royalty  for  singing  that  song  ?  There,  now  :  wliy  don't  you 
gentlemen  of  the  press  set  to  work  and  crush  that  royalty 
system  ?  It  is  most  mischievous  ;  and  the  very  l)est  singers 
are  giving  in  to  it  now,  and  of  course  the  greater  stupid  the 
composer  is  the  more  eager  is  he  to  make  the  royalty  on 
the  sales  big.  Then  the  public  are  stupid,  and  don't  remem- 
ber that  a  good  singer  can  make  even  the  singing  of  scales 
pathetic ;  and  any  kind  of  song  sounds  as  if  it  were  fine  if 
a  good  singer  takes  trouble  with  it.  But  you  are  not  inter- 
ested. I  can  see  you  are  very  nearly  throwing  my  poor  let- 
ter in  the  fire.  But  supposing  that  I  put  it  this  way,  that  A 
(this  sounds  like  the  professor,  but  I'm  not  going  to  teach 
you  harmony),  who  can  sing  a  little,  marries  B,  who  is  very 
fond  of  singing  and  music  generally.  Then  they  grow  older ; 
or  A's  voice  gives  out:  is  there  to  be  no  more  music  ?  On 
the  contrary,  A  having  been  a  good  little  girl,  and  having 
devoted  a  fearful  amount  of  time  to  the  study  of  music  and 
to  practising,  can  still  play  B  to  sleep  after  dinner.  More 
than  that,  if  they  get  into  trouble,  can  she  not  give  music 
lessons  ?  I  believe  this  is  a  clear  case  of  Q.  E.  D. .  is  it 
not.  Master  Willie  ? 

"  But  everything  in  this  letter  is  pure  nonsense,  and  not 
to  be  heeded,  except  the  tremendous  fact  that  in  ten  days  1 
shall  be  in  Cork  again!  think  of  it! — the  very  same  rooms 
too  ;  and  thesame  old  piano  ;  and  the  same  little  iron  gate  out- 
side, which  used  to  give  such  a  queer  rusty  growl  and  squeak 
as  a  sort  of  friendly  good-night  to  Master  Willie,  and  a  hint 
to  come  early  the  next  morning,  if  there  were  any  bluebells 
and  campions  to  be  looked  for  out  in  the  woods.  Alas  !  tlwre 
will  be  no  bluebells  or  anything  else  now — mud,  I  suppo.se; 
and  I  shall  sit  at  the  rainy  window,  and  not  stir  out  until 
it  is  time  to  go  away  down  into  the  smoky  town.     There 


140  SHAND ON  BELLS. 

will  be  nobody  there  now  to  make  all  the  place  wild  and 
romantic ;  and  to  stuff  people's  heads  full  of  dreams  ;  and 
to  make  a  poor  girl  think  she  never  saw  anything  so  lovely 
as  a  street  in  Cork  when  it  rt^as  pouring  wet — and  the  rain 
from  the  umbrella  all  the  time  running  down  her  left  slioulder 
and  arm,  because  her  companion  was  so  careless.  And 
there  won't  be  anybody  to  say  nice  things  about  her  in  the 
Cork  Chronicle;  or  to  walk  home  with  her  up  the  steep 
liill ;  or  to  stop  and  talk  just  for  a  minute  or  a  half-hour  or 
Ko  at  the  little  gate.  And  what  is  Inisheen  like  now  ? — I 
suppose  the  sea  dashing  all  over  the  shore;  the  villas  shut 
up ;  the  town  a  puddle.  Sure  'tis  not  to  Inisheen  that  I'm 
going.  The  only  comfort  would  be  that  the  ghosts  and 
,pixies  of  the  neighborhood  would  have  gone.  What  do 
the  fairies  do  when  it  is  wet  ?  It  must  be  most  uncomfort- 
able up  in  that  glen,  with  all  the  branches  dripping,  and  no 
leaves  on  the  trees,  and  everything  damp  and  cold  and 
miserable.     I  never  heard  of  fairies  in  winter. 

"But  about  Inisheen,  dear  Willie,  seriously.  I  wish 
you  would  let  me  know  a  little  more  clearly  about  that 
promise  you  made  me  give  you.  I  have  heard  that  in 
Scotland  if  two  people  only  say  before  other  people  that 
they  are  man  and  wife,  that  is  enough,  and  they  are  mar- 
ried. I  have  never  been  to  Scotland,  and  I  don't  know ; 
but  I  should  think  people  might  be  too  quick  and  then  re- 
pent. I  want  to  know  if  the  promise  we  made  that  night 
(wasn't  it  a  beautiful  night,  too?)  is  anything  more  than  a 
promise.  I  have  been  wondering  whether  it  might  be  the 
way  young  people  used  to  get  married  when  their  parents 
were  against  it,  or  the  priests  perhaps.  Situated  as  we  are, 
sometimes  I  think  it  was  scarcely  wise  to  bind  ourselves 
like  that;  and  then   again  I  say,  'Bother  these  doubts   and 

troubles;  it's  all  because  Professor 's  conundrums  are 

too  difficult.'  And  I  am  not  going  to  bother  you  with  them, 
dear  Willie  ;  for  you  must  have  enough  to  think  of ;  and  I 
meant  this  to  be  the  longest  and  kindest  letter  ever  written, 
after  what  you  said  about  my  not  caring.  I  do  care.  You 
have  no  right  to  say  that  I  don't — and  if  you  were  here  1 
xojidd  prove  it^  even  to  your  satisfaction.  There,  now  1 
So  don't  say  another  word  about  not  caring;  but  write  me 
a  long,  nice,  pleasant  letter,  professing  yourself  quite  con- 
tented with  everything  that  Providence  and  I  have  done 
for  you,  and  telling  me  all  the  news  of  what  you  are  doing, 
and  hovv  you  occupy  your  time,  and  whether  you  ever  think 


SHANDON  BELLS,  141 

of  poor  banished  me.  You  are  very  ungrateful ;  ^ou  have 
not  the  slightest  notion  of  how  good  I  am  to  you — to  be 
sitting  up  writing  to  you  like  this,  when  every  sensible 
creature  in  Belfast  is  in  bed.  The  lire  has  gone  out ;  and 
the  room  is  dreadfully  cold  ;  yet  here  am  I  writing  away 
with  stiff  fingers,  and  the  difficulty  is  to  know  how  to  stop. 
For  I  do  want  you  to  believe  that  I  did  not  mean  my  letters 
to  be  cold.  I  think  it  was  the  weather  that  got  into  them  ; 
and  if  you  wait  till  a  thaw  comes,  and  read  them  over  again, 
you  will  find  them  quite  different.  This  is  all  at  present 
from  your  loving  Kitty. 

"  P.S. — Miss  Patience  is  very  kind  to  me  just  now.  She 
wrote  a  letter  (which  she  showed  me)  to  the  Northern 
Whig  here,  the  other  day,  about  the  numbers  of  beggars  in 
the  streets ;  and,  as  sure  as  ever  was,  the  very  next  morn- 
ing there  was  an  article  in  the  newspaper  beginning  :  '  From 
the  number  of  letters  which  we  receive  complaining  of  the 
prevalence  of  mendicity  in  this  town,'  etc.  Oh,  my  !  At 
first  she  was  so  lofty  she  would  scarcely  speak  to  me,  for 
Bhe  considers  me  a  frivolous  kind  of  creature,  but  after- 
ward she  grew  more  gracious,  and  has  been  quite  compas- 
sionately kind  to  me  ever  since.  Last  night  she  made  me 
wear  her  gloves  on  the  way  home,  for  I  had  forgotten  mine, 
and  it  was  cold.  She  even  said  that  your  verses  in  Cham- 
bers's  Journal^  which  I  showed  her,  were  written  with 
much  taste,  though  she  added  that  she  thought  this  was 
scarcely  a  time  for  writing  poetry,  considering  the  serious 
state  of  jDublic  affairs.  Never  mind,  Willie,  there  is  one 
person  at  least  who  knows  better  than  that ;  and  you  need 
not  be  afraid  that  she  does  not  appreciate  your  poetry,  as 
the  world  will  some  day. 

**  Good-night,  good-night.  K." 

Many  and  many  a  time  did  Master  Willie  read  over  this 
letter,  wondericg  to  which  to  attach  the  more  importance 
• — the  obvious  outward  cheerfulness,  or  the  curious  half- 
suggested  little  admissions  of  trouble  and  doubt.  He  was 
Fo  anxious  that  Kitty  should  not  be  anxious  !  And  it  was 
liard  on  Kitty  to  be  away  in  those  towns,  practically  alone 
— for  that  fool  of  a  creature  who  was  supposed  to  be  her 
conpanion  apparently  lived  only  for  the  pestering  of  edi- 
tors— and  not  hearing  very  definite  news  of  lier  lover's  suc- 
The  space  that  separated  them  seemed  great  enough  ; 


142  SHANDON  BELLS. 

but  it  was  the  thought  of  the  time  that  might  separate 
them  that  he  was  afraid  would  weigh  on  Kitty's  spirits. 
And  so,  in  answering  her,  he  resolved  to  take  no  notice  of 
these  involuntary  backslidings  of  hers,  but  to  assume  that 
she  still'  had  the  hope  and  high  courage  that  possessed  her 
when  he  and  she  parted  at  Inisheen. 

My  barling  Kitty,"  he  wrote, — *'  You  are  all  wrong 
about  Inisheen.  It  is  far  more  beautiful  now  than  in  the 
gummer ;  this  is  the  time  it  is  worth  living  in — not  when 
idle  and  fashionable  young  ladies  come  down  to  the  little 
villas  and  show  off  their  finery  along  the  sands,  neglecting 
their  music,  and  becoming  impertinent  to  their  companions. 
You  should  see  the  real  Inisheen  when  the  frosty  sun 
shines  red  through  the  thin  fog;  and  you  get  a  touch  of  the 
red  on  the  shallow  waters  of  the  harbor ;  and  the  heavy 
craft  are  lying  high  and  dry  on  the  yellow  mud.  Just  now, 
my  dear  Kitty,  you  would  find  the  sun  setting  behind  the 
sea,  not  away  up  behind  the  land,  and  the  cliffs  locking 
splendid.  Then  at  night — think  of  the  moon  on  the  frost- 
hardened  moor,  with  the  ice  ponds  quite  silvery  here  and 
there ;  that  is  the  time  for  the  duck,  I  can  tell  you.  You 
think  the  people  are  depressed  now  ?  Why,  this  is  the 
sociable  time  of  the  year ;  when  you  come  home  stiff  with 
cold  to  a  blazing  fire  and  a  warm  room  ;  and  then  you  get 
your  dinner  over,  and  people  come  in,  and  you  have  the 
w^hiskey  put  on  the  table  (that's  for  you,  Miss  Kitty,  not 
for  me),  and  the  kettle  steaming  on  the  fire,  and  then  the 
jokes  and  stories  begin.  Then  you  want  to  T^now  where 
the  fairies  go  to  in  the  winter?  I  can  tell  you  all  about 
that.  Mind  you,  the  glen  you  speak  of  is  quite  lovely  just 
now,  with  red  berries  and  dark  green  bramble  stems  and 
lots  of  color  you  don't  find  at  all  in  the  monotonous  sum- 
mer green ;  but  that  does  not  matter ;  for  I  confess  that 
the  fairies  at  this  time  do  spend  the  most  of  their  time  feast- 
ing and  singing  and  dancing  in  the  great  halls  within  the 
mountains,  though  they  have  scouts  sent  out  from  time  to 
time  to  see  what  is  going  on.  There  was  a  great  banquet 
given  by  Don  Fierna  on  the  night  of  Tuesday  last  in  the 
hall  that  comes  nearest  to  the  liillside  above  the  well  that 
you  know.  It  was  a  very  splendid  affair;  the  vast  cavern 
was  all  lit  up  by  millions  of  glowworms  placed  along  the 
rocks  :  but  besides  that  there  were  innumerable  will-o'-the- 
wisps  moving  through  the  air,  so  that  you  could  see  all  the 


SIIANDON  BELLS.  143 

colors  of  the  various  costumes  quite  well,  although  most  of 
the  light  fell  on  the  long  banquet  board,  and  that,  again, 
lit  up  the  smiling  faces  of  the  ladies  and  their  knights.  At 
the  head  of  the  long  table  Don  Fierna  sat  in  state ;  a  terri- 
ble, huge  person  nearly  two  feet  in  height,  with  a  prodi- 
gious black  mustache  and  heavy  eyebrows ;  he  wore  a 
►Spanish  hat  of  black  velvet,  a  scarlet  cloak,  and  on  his 
breast  hung  his  thick  gold  chain  of  office,  all  glittering  with 
precious  stones.  On  his  right  sat  the  boy-king  of  the  fair- 
ies (who  is  his  heir-apparent),  but  he  was  a  very  beautiful 
little  king,  with  large  blue  eyes  and  golden  hair,  and  he 
wore  a  cloak  of  purple  velvet  clasped  at  the  neck  with  gold, 
and  also  a  crown  of  pure  gold  starred  with  sapphires.  Oppo- 
site him — that  is,  on  Don  Fierna's  left — sat  the  boy-king's 
bride  ;  she  was  more  like  a  fairy  than  any  of  them,  she  was 
so  slight  and  fair  and  delicate ;  and  she  wore  a  cloak  of 
cream-white  velvet,  which  had  a  scarlet  flower  where 
that  was  clasped,  and  her  crown  was  not  of  gold,  but  of 
pure  silver,' with  scarlet  berries  set  into  it.  The  other 
knights  and  ladies  were  in  all  sorts  of  different  costumes 
and  colors ;  and  so  were  the  servitors,  who  were  hurrying 
this  way  and  that  with  the  materials  of  the  feast.  Oh,  did 
I  tell  you  that  in  the  distance  you  could  hear  nightingales. 
For  this  is  where  the  nightingales  retire  to  in  the  winter ; 
but  they  would  be  too  noisy ;  so  they  are  shut  up  in  an 
adjoining  cave,  and  you  can  only  hear  their  singing  like  a 
sort  of  continuous  water  fall.  Well  you  know,  Kitty,  I 
need  not  tell  you  all  the  things  they  had  at  the  banquet ; 
for  the  menu  was  rather  long ;  only  this,  that  the  wine  they 
drank  was  made  of  the  honey  that  you  get  in  the  heads  of 
pink  clover,  and  that  whereas  the  lords  and  the  ladies 
drank  out  of  acorn  cups,  Don  Fierna's  flagon  consisted  of 
the  shell  of  a  plover's  ^^2^  set  in  a  handle  of  bog-oak.  Well, 
when  they  had  got  down  to  the  end  of  the  list,  Don  Fierna 
rose ;  and  the  moment  they  saw  him  rise,  each  lord  and 
lady  struck  a  small  silver  gong  in  front  of  them,  so  that  in- 
stantly there  was  a  sort  of  soft  tinkling  music  rising  from 
the  whole  table  and  filling  the  cave  ;  and  this  immediately 
hushed  the  servitors  to  silence. 

"  '  Your  Majesties,  my  noble  lords  and  gracious  ladies,' 
said  Don  Fierna,  *  before  we  proceed  to  the  dance,  I  have 
a  question  to  ask.  What  is  the  name  of  the  mortal  who 
was  last  at  the  Well  of  Vows  ?  ' 

"  All  the  eyes  of  the  assemblage  were  now  turned  to  tha 


144  SHANDON  BELLS, 

loiver  end  of  the  cavern,  where,  near  the  immense  gate,  and 
half  hidden  in  the  dusk,  was  a  rather  tall,  soldier-looking 
fairy,  dressed  entirely  in  blue,  with  a  blue  feather  in  his 
cap,  and  a  long  silver  sword  by  his  side. 

"  *  Catherine,  my  liege,'  he  said.  (It's  a  curious  fact, 
Kitty,  but  the  fairies  always  call  mortals  by  their  Christian 
names.  I  don't  know  why  it  is  ;  perhaps  it  is  in  imitation 
of  the  Church ;  or  perhaps  they  found  that  human  beings 
were  always  changing  their  surname.) 

"'Say,  where  is  this  Catherine?'  Don  Fierna  con- 
tinued, and  you  could  hear  his  voice  through  the  whole 
place,  though  he  did  not  speak  so  loudly  either.  But  every- 
body was  listening  intently. 

" '  In  the  North,  my  liege.  It  is  understood  she  is  com- 
ing to  your  Highness's  city  of  Cork.' 

"  '  She  has  been  observed  ?  ' 

"  '  Assuredly,  my  liege.' 

"  '  She  remains  faithful  to  her  vow  ?  ' 

"  At  this  all  the  ladies  lowered  their  eyes^  and  looked 
at  each  other,  wondering. 

"  '  She  does,  my  liege.' 

"The  words  were  pronounced  with  emphasis;  and  no 
sooner  were  they  heard  than  the  whole  assemblage  once 
more  struck  the  little  silver  gongs,  and  it  was  as  if  the  hol- 
lows of  the  cavern  overhead  were  all  filled  with  the  singing 
of  birds. 

"'Your  Majesties,  my  lords  and  ladies,'  said  Don 
Fierna,  'we  may  despatch  this  piece  of  business  before  the 
revels  begin.  This  faithful  one  must  be  rewarded.  When 
she  comes  to  our  royal  city  of  Cork,  you  will  assure  to  her 
sweet  sleep,  sweet  dreams.  You  will  instruct  your  attend- 
ants. You  will  banish  from  her  idle  fears  ;  you  will  guard 
her  from  the  phantoms  of  the  night :  the  dark  and  sleep 
shall  be  as  sweet  to  her  as  the  day.' 

"  With  that  all  down  the  table  there  was  a  continuous 
'Yes,'  'Yes,'  'Yes,'  so  that  the  sound  was  just  like  the 
wind  in  summer  stirring  through  the  beech  trees.  Don 
Fierna  then  gave  his  hand  to  the  young  queen  in  white 
velvet ;  and  the  king  her  sweetheart  turned  to  the  noble 
dame  who  was  next  him  ;  and  so  the  whole  company  went 
away  two  and  two  down  the  great  hall  (but  leaving  enough 
space  between  the  cou^'les  for  the  ladies'  trains  to  be  fairly 
Reen).  And  then,  wlien  the  lords  and  ladies  had  disappeared 
into  the  ball-room,  the  servitors,  in  their  green  iackets  and 


SUA ND  OiV  BELLS.  1 45 

gray  hose,  forthwith  jumped  into  the  chairs  of  their  masters 
and  mistresses ;  and  there  was  such  a  noise  of  Jau^iiiiigand 
feasting  that  the  very  nightingales  could  no  lunger  make 
tliemselves  heard. 

"  And  so  you  see,  my  dear  Kitty,  that  so  far  from  liav 
ing  anything  to  fear  from  Don  Fierna  and  the  fairies  and 
the  elves  of  Inisheen,  they  really  have  you  under  their  pro- 
tection ;  and  it  is  not  the  least  use  your  worrying  about 
"what  you  promised  at  the  well,  and  imagining  dark  things, 
for,  indeed,  promise  or  no  promise,  the  result  will  be  quite 
the  same.  Only,  it  seems  to  me,  it  would  be  base  in- 
gratitude on  our  part  for  all  the  kindness  of  the  invisible 
world  of  Don  Fierna  if  we  were  not  to  make  that  pilgrim- 
age. And  only  once  in  seven  years,  too  !  Dear  Kitty, 
think  what  a  trip  that  will  be !  Of  course,  in  married  life, 
if  what  every  one  says  is  true,  and  if  we  should  prove  to 
be  only  like  other  people,  one's  views  of  things  must  natur- 
ally get  changed  ;  and  no  doubt  the  romance  of  love  may 
get  a  little  tempered  down  by  familiarity  and  custom  ;  and 
you  can  not  have  such  a  lot  of  things  to  talk  over  as  two 
people  wlio  only  meet  from  time  to  time,  and  have  all  their 
future  to  settle.  But  just  think  what  a  re-opening  of  the 
past  that  will  be  to  us  two :  how  we  shall  seem  to  see  our- 
selves again  standing  there  as  we  were  seven  years  before ; 
and  if  we  have  had  our  quarrels  or  misunderstandings, 
surely  that  will  be  the  place  to  make  everything  up.  My 
darling,  don't  look  on  your  promise  of  that  night  as  some- 
thing terrible,  something  to  haunt  you,  but  rather  as  a  bit 
of  romance  added  to  the  facts  of  your  life — sometliing  that 
you  can  recall  in  after-days  with  a  kind  of  smile,  perhaps, 
but  yet  with  a  tender  smile,  and  something  that  will  remind 
you  through  possibly  more  prosaic  .years  of  what  you  and  I 
were  thinking  of  once.     Is  not  that  sensible.  Sweet  ejes? 

"  About  your  father :  you  must  let  him  understand,  my 
darling,  that  I  am  quite  as  anxious  as  he  can  be  that  I 
should  have  something  definite  and  settled ;  but  Rome  was 
not  built  in  a  day  ;  and  if  you  and  I  are  content  to  wait  for 
a  while,  I  suppose  that  is  our  own  business.  Do  you  know, 
Kitty,  that  you  are  very  profuse  in  your  assurances  that 
you  are  content  with  things  as  they  are  ?  I  am  not ;  not  at 
all.  I  try  to  imagine  what  our  life  will  be  when  we  are 
together ;  and  of  course  that  makes  me  very  impatient 
when  I  find  another  stumbling-block  in  my  w^ay.  However, 
tiiore  is  no  reason  for  grumbling.     Plenty  of  people  have 


146  SHANDON  BELLS, 

come  to  London  to  try  to  earn  a  living,  and  been  worse 
served  than  I  have  been.  I  have  one  hundred  pounds  a 
year  certain  ;  I  have  nearly  all  my  time  my  own  ;  and  I  am 
writing  so  much,  and  offering  it  in  so  many  quarters,  that  I 
must  in  time  find  out  what  the  newspapers  and  magazines 
would  wish  to  have,  or  what  it  is  they  object  to.  Mind 
you,  I  have  my  own  ideals,  and  when  the  chance  serves,  I 
work  at  them  ;  but  in  this  absolute  fight  for  life  I  have  got 
to  make  just  such  bricks  as  the  builder  will  buy.  Some  day, 
Kitty — when  you  and  I  can  plan  things  together — after  the 
fight  is  over,  and  we  have  won  the  fortress,  then  I  shall  be 
abJe  to  work  in  my  own  way,  careless  of  everybody,  and 
who  knows  but  that  one  might  then  *  strike  for  lionest 
fame '  ?  I  shall  look  in  your  eyes ;  the  old  days  at  Inisheeu 
will  come  back :  that  will  be  inspiration  enough." 

"  In  the  meantime,  dear  Kitty,  if  I  can't  tell  you  of  any- 
thing definite  and  settled  as  regards  my  literary  work,  this 
at  least  will  please  you.  1  have  been  thinking  over  a  series 
of  papers  describing  the  nonsense  that  is  talked  about 
politics  and  political  men  in  tavern  parlors  and  the  like — 
some  of  it  being  exquisitely  absurd,  and  I  wrote  one  paper, 
and  sent  it  to  tlie  Hyde  Park  Journal,  To  my  astonish- 
ment (and  a  little  bit  of  delight),  it  appears  in  this  even- 
ing's edition  ;  and  I  send  you  a  copy,  though  it  won't  in- 
terest you  much  Now  the  Hyde  Park  is  a  very  good 
paper,  and  if  they  will  only  continue  the  series,  it  will  be  an 
excellent  thing  for  me,  for  the  varieties  of  human  folly, 
especially  public-house-politics  folly,  are  endless.  So  you 
see  things  are  not  so  bad ;  and  you  are  a  good  girl  to  be 
working  so  hard — so  good  that  I  am  not  going  to  talk  any 
more  to  you  about  wretched  newspapers  and  my  scribbling, 
and  hopes  and  disappointments.  Don't  forget  that  I  love 
you.  I  shall  be  glad  to  hear  of  your  being  in  Cork,  for 
then  Don  Fierna  will  have  his  little  scouts  looking  after 
you  and  protecting  you.     Do  not  forget  that  I  love  you." 


SHANDON  BELLS.  147 

CHAPTER  XY. 

A    SYMPOSIUM.* 

But  if  Fitzgerald's  efforts  to  obtain  a  footing  in  litera- 
ture had  so  far  been  productive  mostly  of  disappointment, 
he  was  very  clearly  succeeding  in  another  direction.  Mrs. 
Chetwynd  made  no  secret  of  her  interest  in,  and  wish  to 
befriend,  this  young  man,  who  seemed  to  l]er  to  resemble 
in  many  ways  the  nephew  whom  she  had  lost;  and  the 
good  old  lady,  with  much  tact  and  delicacy,  hinted  that  he 
himself  might  make  the  suggestion  when  any  opportunity 
offered.  It  is  not  improbable  that  if  Fitzgerald  had  asked 
her  for  funds  wherewith  to  start  another  magazine,  she 
would  have  consented ;  but  he  had  had  enough  of  such  ex- 
periments. 

In  the  meantime  he  strove  to  make  his  duties  as  little 
of  a  sinecure  as  was  possible.  To  his  own  great  delight  he 
had  absolute  carte  blanche  as  regarded  the  ordering  of  new 
books  or  reviews;  and  he  diligently  read  the  one,  and 
glanced  over  the  other,  so  as  to  let  his  patroness  know  what 
was  going  on.  But  when  it  actually  came  to  the  imparting 
of  this  information,  the  chances  were  that  the  little  old 
lady  would  begin  by  asking  him  something  about  his  own 
affairs,  and  that  not  unfrequently  led  to  a  mere  gossip 
about  the  south  of  Ireland.  Once  or  twice,  indeed,  she  in- 
advertently called  him  "  Frank" ;  and  then  apologized  for  the 
mistake,  with  a  quiet  tear  or  two.  On  another  occasion, 
when  he  was  about  to  leave,  she  happened  to  hear  the  rain 
beating  heavily  against  the  window. 

"  Oh,  but  you  must  not  go  out  in  such  a  shower,  Mr. 
Fitzgerald,"  she  said,  "Or  you  might  ask  Saunders  to 
get  you  a  waterproof." 

Indeed,  she  herself  rang,  and — with  a  little  hesitation, 
which  Fitzgerald  understood  perfectly  —  told  the  man 
where  be  would  find  the  coat.  Fitzgerald  thanked  her,  o£ 
course  ;  and  went  out,  and  down  into  the  hall.  But  some- 
thing, he  scarcely  knew  what,  forbade  his  making  use  of 
this  waterproof. 

"  Whose  is  it?"  he  said  to  the  footman  who  Irought  it 
to  him  J 


1  is  SHANDON  BELLS 

"  It  was  Mr.  "Frank's,  sir." 

Pie  liad  guessed  as  much, 

"  Oh,  tliank  you,"  he  said,  rather  absently.  "  I  don*t 
think  I  shall  need  it.     I  have  not  very  far  to  go." 

But  if  Fitzgerald  was  slow  to  avail  himself,  on  his  own 
account,  of  those  hinted  offers  which  the  kind  old  lady  had 
made  him,  it  occurred  to  him  that  he  might  do  something 
for  his  friend  John  Ross.  Mrs.  Chetwynd  had  heard  a 
good  deal  about  the  Scotch  artist  in  Fitzgerald's  description 
of  theircon  joint  occupations  and  country  walks ;  and  at 
last  she  said  she  would  like  to  see  some  of  his  work. 

"I  do  not  promise  to  buy  any,"  said  the  old  lady,  with 
her  pleasant  smile,  "  for  there  is  scarcely  any  place  we 
could  put  them." 

Indeed,  the  house  was  pretty  well  filled  with  the  ordi- 
jiary  pictorial  adornments  of  an  English  dwelling — little 
pieces  of  Dutch  genre  in  heavy  old-fashioned  frames; 
gloomy  landscapes  a  long  way  after  Salvator  Rosa ;  one 
or  two  imitations  of  Wilkie ;  and  a  large  number  of  his- 
torical engravings,  glorious  in  incident,  but  less  satisfactory 
in  draughtsmanship. 

*'  Besides,"  added  Mrs.  Chetwynd,  "  Mary  would  ac- 
cuse me  of  extravagance,  so  long  as  I  disapprove  of  her 
spending  her  money  on  a  nine-and-a-half-inch  telescope." 

"  A  nine-and-a-half-inch  telescope  ?  "  said  Fitzgerald,  in 
surprise — for  he  had  understood  that  Miss  Chetwynd  was 
a  young  lady  of  considerable  fortune.  *'  Surely  that  can 
not  amount  to  much  ?  " 

"  So  I  thought,"  said  the  old  lady,  laughing,  "  when  I 
heard  of  it  at  first.  But  it  appears  that  the  nine  and  a  half 
inches  refer  to  the  diameter  of  the  glass ;  and  I  am  told  the 
thing  looks  more  like  v\.  thirty-two  pounder.  And  then 
she  spends  so  much  of  her  money  on  these  poor  people  of 
hers!  Well,  it  is  her  own,  poor  thing.  I  think  I  must  let 
her  have  her  way.  She  shall  have  the  window  in  her  room 
altered,  and  she  shall  have  her  thirty-two  pounder ;  and 
then  I  will  buy  some  of  your  friend's  pictures." 

"  Oh,  but  I  could  not  have  you  buy  them  on  my  recom- 
mendation," said  Fitzgerald,  in  some  alarm.  "  That  would 
never  do.  You  must  have  some  skilled  advice — I  don't 
know  enough  about  pictures- ' 

"  But,  according  to  your  account,  they  are  just  the  very 
paintings  to  suit  a  blind   old  woman,"  she  saiu  brightly, 


SHANDON  BELLS.  149 

"  I  shall  see  liotliing  of  them  but  their  color,  which  you  say 

is  so  good " 

"  But — but  I  would  ask  you  to  have  some  one  else's 
judgment,  Mrs  Chetwynd,"  said  he,  earnestly.  "  Of  course 
I  think  them  good  I  don't  see  how  the  work  of  a  man  who 
studies  as  hard  as  he  does,  and  who  can  talk  so  ably  about  it, 
can  De  anything  else.  But  if  you  will  allow  me,  I  will  bring 
up  a  few  of  his  sketches ;  and  you  might  ask  some  one  who 
is  a  good  judge " 

"  As  for  that,  there  will  be  no  difficulty,"  she  said,  pro- 
mptly. "  We  know  sveral  of  the  Academicians.  It  is  not 
unusual  for  one  or  other  of  them  to  drop  in  to  dinner  and 
have  a  chat  with  the  scientifics." 

"Academicians?'"'  said  Fitzgerald,  uneasily.  "  Not 
very  old  ones  ?  " 

She  named  one  or  two. 

"  Oh,"  said  he,  gladly,  "  any  one  of  these  would  do.  I 
am  not  afraid  of  them." 

But  this  conversation  had  results  for  himself  as  well 
as  for  his  friend.  Fitzgerald  was  in  the  habit  of  leaving  a 
minute  or  two  before  a  quarter  to  seven,  which  was  the  hour 
for  Mrs  Chetvvynd's  table  d'hote,  as  she  called  it;  and  even 
then  he  sometimes  encountered  in  the  hall  a  guest  Avho  had 
strolled  in  before  the  proper  time.  But  this  talk  about  Ross's 
pictures  had  made  hina  forgetful;  and  he  was  just  about  to 
ask  his  patroness  some  further  question  as  to  what  kind  of 
landscape  she  preferred,  when  a  gong  sounded  below. 

"  Goodness  gracious  me !  "  exclaimed  the  old  lady. 
**  There  is  dinner,  and  Mary  has  not  come  back  from  South 
Kensington,  Mr.  Fitzgerald,  will  you  kindly  give  me  your 
arm  downstairs — I  am  so  blind  now ;  and  the  people  will  be 
coming  in,  and  nobody  to  receive  them  !  " 

But  at  this  very  moment  Miss  Chetwynd  made  her  ap- 
peararce — a  trifle  breathless,  for  she  had  run  upstairs. 

*'  Come  away,  auntie,"  she  said,  cheerfully,  as  she  has- 
tily took  off  her  bonnet  and  cloak,  and  threw  them  on  a  chair. 
**  But  why  don't  you  ever  persuade  Mr.  Fitzgerald  to  stay  to 
dinner?    I  know  he  dislikes  scientific  people " 

It  is  needless  to  say  that  this  invitation  was  warmly 
seconded  :  and  Fitzgerald  who  was  quite  aware  of  the  that  in- 
formal nature  of  this  nightly  table  d'hote,  and  v/ho,  perhaps, 
had  somelittle  curiosity  to  see  in  the  flesh  one  or  other  of  the 
celebrated  people  that  Mrs.  Chetwynd  talked  so  much  about, 
very  gratefully  and  modestly  accepted.     He  did  not  even 


150  'SHANDON  BELLS. 

make  a  pretence  of  refusing.  M  ary  Chetwynd's  proposal  liad 
been  made  so  simply  and  frankly  that  he  met  it  with  equal 
frankness.  He  walked  into  the  dining-room  after  the  two 
ladies,  with  much  calmness ;  and  this  time  he  had  nothing 
to  fear  about  evening  dress. 

Tliere  were  three  gentleman  in  the  room.  One  was 
away  in  a  corner,  examining  through  a  double  eyeglass  tlial 
he  held  in  his  hand  one  of  the  engravings  on  the  walls ; 
the  other  two  were  standing  on  the  hearthrug,  their  backs 
to  the  fire.  The  taller  of  these  was  a  long  thin,  cadaverous 
man,  who  stooped  a  little ;  he  had  piercing  gray  eyes  under 
shaggy  eyebrows  ;  and  very  white  teeth,  which  showed  when 
he  laughed  his  prodigious  laugh  ;  him  Fitzgerald  recognized 
at  once,  having  seen  his  photograph  often  enough,  as  a  Dr. 
Bude.  The  other  he  did  not  know !  but  he  thought  it  very 
cool  of  both  these  gentlemen  to  take  the  entrance  of  the  two 
ladies  with  so  much  indifference.  They  finished  what  they 
had  been  talking,  or  rather  laughing,  about ;  then  they  came 
forward  and  shook  hands  ;  and  then  sat  down  as  it  pleased 
them  at  the  table.  But  this  indifference  was  unintentional ; 
for  very  soon,  when  some  other  guest  had  come  in  and  every- 
body had  sat  down,  and  dinner  had  begun,  it  was  very  clear 
that  Dr.  Bude  was  amongst  the  foremost  to  amuse  and  en- 
tertain his  hostess.  And  it  must  beconfessed  that  there  was 
very  little  science  talked  amongst  this  nondescript  gather- 
ing of  friendB  and  acquaintances.  There  was  a  good  deal  of 
joking,  it  is  true,  when  it  became  known  that  Mary  Chet- 
wynd  was  to  be  allowed  to  have  her  big  telescope  ;  but  for 
the  most  part  the  talk  was  all  about  public  characters,  and 
what  So-and-so  had  said,  and  where  So-and-so  was  staying. 
These  scientific  gentlemen  seemed  to  know  a  good  deal 
about  the  comparative  merits  of  certain  country  houses  as 
places  of  temporary  lodgment ;  and  their  talk  about  fish- 
ponds, and  cooking  and  the  advantages  of  having  a  well 
heated  hall  in  the  middle  of  a  house,  was  not  so  very  much 
raised,after  all,  above  the  level  of  Mr.  Scobell.  Master  Willie 
had  more  than  once  wondered  what  figure  Mr.  Scobell  would 
cut  in  this  familiar  little  assemblage  of  greaj;  people ;  but  in- 
deed their  conversation  was  not  of  an  extremely  serious 
nature. 

He  sat  next  to  Dr.  Bude  ;  and  as  Dr.  Bude  was  engaged 
in  descriV)ing,  with  tremendous  laughter,  to  Mrs.  Chetwynd, 
a  conveisation  he  had  had  with  a  gentleman  whom  he  had 
met  at  a  City  dinner,  Fitzgerald  had  plenty  of  leisure  ta 


SHAN  DON  BELLS.  15) 

study  the  rest  of  the  guests,  and  also  his  hostess's  niece.  He 
had  had  no  such  opportunity  before.  He  had  scarcely  ever 
t^ecn  Miss  Chetwynd.  She  was  mostly  engaged  in  the  east  of 
London  ;  when  she  was  in  the  house,  she  was  occupied  in 
her  own  room.  And  now  it  seemed  to  him  that  her  expres- 
sion was  a  little  more  gentle,  less  resolute  and  self-suffi- 
cient, than  he  had  fancied  it  was.  The  head  was  small  and 
beautifully  shaped,  and  she  wore  her  hair  more  tightly 
brushed  than  was  the  fashion  of  the  time,  so  that  the  sym- 
metry of  the  head  was  clearly  seen.  Her  features  were 
fine:  her  complexion  somewhat  pale;  and  now  he  saw  that 
her  eyes,  which  hitherto  he  had  considered  to  be  some- 
what cold  in  their  clear,  direct  way  of  looking  at  one,  were 
really  of  a  beautiful  blue  with  dark  lashes,  and  could  be  ex- 
pressive enough,  whether  she  seemed  intrested  in  what  her 
neighbor  was  saying,  or  was  joining  iu  some  general  merri- 
ment. And  when  she  had  to  submit  to  some  raillery  about 
the  forth-coming  big  telescope,  she  did  it  very  prettily, 

"  You  know,"  she  said,  "  the  time  will  come  when  people 
will  look  back  on  Lord  Rosse's  telescope  as  a  mere  toy." 

"  Why,  of  course,"  said  Dr.  Bude,  coming  to  her  rescue. 
*'You  are  quite  right.  Miss  Chetwynd.  The  human  race 
n'\\\  be  driven  to  invent  not  only  immense  telescopes,  but 
Also  means  of  conveying  themselves  to  some  other  planet, 
ihat  is,  when  this  one  grows  too  cold  for  human  subsistence. 
When  the  earth  cools — and  the  process  is  going  on  now — 
i5o  that  humanity  must  flit,  you  may  depend  on  it,  by  that 
iime  science  will  have  invented  means  for  their  removal  to  a 
more  generous  climate.  But  there  must  be  a  beginning  in 
the  way  of  experiment.  I  appeal  to  Professor  Sims.  The 
Royal  Society  should  do  something." 

Professor  Sims,  who  \vas  the  shorter  of  the  two  strangers 
whom  Fitzgerald  had  found  standing  before  the  fire,  and 
who  was  a  white-haired,  rosy-faced  old  gentleman,  with 
gold  spectacles,  answered  immediately, 

''No  doubt,  no  doubt,"  said  he.  "The  necessity  must 
arise.  And  if  you  look  at  what  science  has  done  within  the 
last  ten  years,  who  is  to  say  what  she  may  not  have  accom- 
l^lished  within  the  next — what  shall  I  say  ?  " 

'' '  An  eternity  or  two,'  was  Alfred  de  Musset's  phrase," 
suggested  Fitzgerald ;  but  it  instantly  occurred  to  him  that 
to  mention  even  the  name  of  a  sentimentalist  like  Alfred  de 
Musset  among  these  hard-headed  people  was  absurd.  How- 
ever, it  did  not  much  matter ;  for  presently  they  were  con. 


152  SHANDON  BELLS. 

sidering  whether,  when  the  world  had  got  chilled  down  to 
the  condition  of  the  moon,  the  last  traces  of  human  occupa- 
tion would  be  the  Pyramids  or  the  Colosseum.  Some  one 
suggested  the  buried  cities  of  Mexico  j  and  so  the  matter 
dropped. 

The  dinner  was  a  plain  one  as  compared  with  the  ban- 
quet which  Hilton  Clarke  had  given  in  the  Albany  ;  and 
Fitzgerald  observed  that  the  majority  of  the  gentlemen 
present  drank  no  wine,  or,  at  most,  a  little  claret  and  water. 
Indeed,  the  whole  of  the  proceedings  were  somewhat 
abnormal  ;  for,  directly  the  frugal  repast  was  over,  coffee 
and  cigarettes  were  produced,  and  the  ladies  remained.  Then 
one  or  another  of  the  guests  would  get  up,  and  without  any 
formal  apology,  shake  hands  with  Mrs.  Chetwynd  and  her 
niece,  and  say  "  Good-night,"  or  "  Au  revoir,"  or  perhaps 
notliing  at  all,  to  the  others,  and  be  off. 

"  I  must  be  off  too  directly,"  said  Dr.  Bude  to  Fitzgerald, 
"  I  have  some  people  coming  to  look  at  a  few  simple  experi- 
ments with  the  spectroscope;  and  I  must  go  and  see  thai, 
m.y  battery  is  ready.  Will  you  come  ?  I  can  show  you  'A 
nine-and-a-half-inch  telescope,  since  that  seems  to  interest 
you." 

"  Oh,  certainly ;  I  shall  be  delighted,"  said  Fitzgearld, 
with  great  eagerness.  This  Dr.  Bude  had  been  very  kind 
in  one  or  two  little  things  he  has  said  during  dinner.  He 
knew  about  the  Household  Magazine.  He  knew  about  Fitz- 
gerald's present  duties.  He  seemed  a  friendly  sort  of  per- 
son ;  and  the  mere  invitation  Avas  a  compliment  coming  from 
one  so  well  known. 

The  only  doubt  in  Fitzgerald's  mind  was  as  to  the  pro- 
priety of  his  going  away  while  any  of  the  others  remained. 
He  had  no  lecture  to  deliver,  nor  any  learned  society  to  at- 
tend. Moreover,  there  did  not  seem  much  chance  of  his 
explaining  the  circumstances  to  Mrs.  Chetwynd  ;  for  the 
pretty  old  lady — who  seemed  so  pleased  that  all  these  peo- 
ple should  drop  in  to  chat  with  her  for  an  hour — was  listen- 
ing intently  to  the  gentleman  on  her  left ;  and  he  was  de- 
scribing the  very  remarkable  high  jinks  he  had  observed  in 
a  great  person's  house  immediately  after  dmner — the  ladies, 
indeed,  taking  part  in  them ;  and  he  was  warmly  defending 
th^se  on  hygienic  principles,  although  hoping  that  nothing 
about  then  would  get  into  the  papers,  through  some  unfor- 
tunate accident  happening.  However,  Dr.  Bude  got  him 
out  of  the  dilemma ;  for  he  rose  and  said : — 


SHANDON  BELLS.  153 

"  Good-night,  Mrs.  Chetwynd.  I  must  be  off  to  get  my 
things  ready ;  and  I  am  going  to  take  Mr.  Fitzgerafd  with 
me,  to  show  him  what  a  nine-and-a-half-inch  ttlescope  is 
like." 

lie  went  out  of  the  room  without  saying  good-by  to 
anybody  else,  Fitzgerald  following;  and  the  latter,  \\\  a 
minute  or  so,  found  himself,  for  the  first  time  in  his  life,  in 
a  private  hansom — a  vehicle  which  went  so  smoothly  and  so 
rapidly  that  he  seemed  to  be  going  through  the  air  on 
wings. 

Dr.  Bude'g  house  was  in  the  Brompton  Road — a  rather 
shabby-looking  building  outside,  but  spacious  within.  Fitz- 
gerald followed  his  host  up  to  the  first  floor,  the  back  part 
of  which  consisted  of  an  apartment  that  seemed  partly  an 
observatory,  partly  a  library,  and  partly  a  laboratory.  An 
assistant  was  at  the  moment  arranging  some  glass  tubes  and 
tw^o  spectroscopes  on  a  table;  and  Dr.  Bude,  throwing  off 
his  coat,  though  the  dusky  room  was  far  from  being  over- 
warm,  proceeded  to  test  the  various  vrires  and  other 
apparatus,  all  of  which  were  a  profound  mystery  to  his 
guest. 

"I  suppose  you  see  a  great  deal  of  Miss  Chetwynd?" 
he  said  ;  and  at  the  same  moment  the  electric  light  flashed 
into  a  tube,  causing  Fitzgerald's  eyes  to  jump. 

♦*  Oh,  no,  very  little." 

"  She  is  a  very  remarkable  woman,"  said  the  other,  with 
decision  ;  though  indeed,  he  was  now  on  his  kness  on  the 
floor,  examining  the  battery.  "  She  might  do  something, 
that  girl.  She  has  a  fine  brain — acute  and  penetrating. 
But  she  has  had  no  training ;  that  is  the  mischief  of  it. 
She  should  have  been  brought  up  on  mathematics.  But, 
after  all,  the  number  of  women  who  have  done  anything  in 
pure  science  is  very  small.  I  think  she  is  throwing  herself 
away  on  this  education  of  the  poorest  classes  ;  that  is  ves- 
trymen's work ;  though  perhaps  I  should  not  say  so,  for  I 
don't  know  precisely  what  she  is  at." 

Then  he  rose  and  clapped  his  hands  together,  to  get  rid 
of  the  dust. 

*'  I  was  amused,"  he  said,  with  a  laugh.  "  She  asked  me 
what  would  be  the  most  effectual  way  of  teaching  these 
ignorant  people  the  perniciousness  of  breathing  foul  air. 
You  know  how  they  huddle  together  for  warmth,  and  cover 
the  children  over  with  such  bedclothes  as  they  have  got.    I 


154  SHANDON  BELLS. 

think  she  was  going  to  deliver  a  lecture  on  *  Fresh  Air  and 
Pure  Water  '  somewhere  or  other " 

"  Yes,  I  know  she  has  done  that,"  said  Fitzgerald,  as 
the  tall  lean  man  turned  toward  the  table  again  and  con- 
tinued his  preparations. 

"  Well,  she  very  naturally  concluded  that  tumbling 
gases  of  different  weights  into  jars,  or  extinguishing  tapers, 
would  not  be  impressive  enough ;  so  I  told  her  to  get  a 
sparrow,  to  tie  its  feet  down  to  a  bit  of  board,  and  to  put 
over  it  a  bell-jar  before  these  people,  and  ask  them  to  watch 
what  will  happen  to  the  bird  merely  through  its  breathing 
its  own  breath.  Of  course  the  little  creature  becomes 
asphyxiated,  staggers,  and  falls,  and  ultimately  dies.  Doubt- 
less, I  told  her,  the  most  effective  way  of  exhibiting  the 
experiment  would  be  to  raise  the  bell-jar  during  the  process 
of  asphyxiation,  and  show  the  reviving  effect  of  the  fresh 
air ;  then  to  close  it  again  until  death  preached  its  moral. 
She  said  she  would  do  that.  She  was  quite  delighted. 
What  lesson  could  be  more  obvious ^" 

But  at  this  moment  there  was  a  sound  of  footsteps  on  the 
stairs ;  and  the  I>)ctor  had  to  whip  on  his  coat,  and  go  and 
receive  two  or  three  young  people  who  now  entered.  Fitz- 
gerald did  not  like  that  story  about  the  sparrow.  Miss 
Chetwynd  was  no  Lesbia,  clearly.  And  although  the 
conscience  of  a  wild-fowl  shooter  is  apt  to  be  hard,  and  al- 
though he  knew  quite  well  that  the  asphyxiation  of  a  spar- 
row, or  even  twenty  dozen  of  sparrows,  was  scarcely  to  be 
considered  if  it  induced  a  certain  number  of  human  beings 
to  treat  their  children  more  humanely — still — still 

The  Doctor  came  back. 

"'I  have  a  sort  of  class,"  he  explained  to  Fitzgerald, 
*'  who  come  and  practice  a  little,  and  ask  questions,  before 
the  vulgar  world  arrives  to  be  amused.  I  hope  it  won't  be 
tedious  for  you.  If  you  prefer  it,  my  assistant  will  arrange 
the  telescope  for  you  ;  the  night  is  beautifully  clear " 

"  Oh  no,  not  at  all.  Was  Miss  Chetwynd's  experiment 
successful  ?  " 

"  Why,  I  forgot  to  finish  my  story.  She  got  the  spar- 
row, and  the  string,  and  the  board,  and  the  bell-jar,  all  com- 
plete ;  and  she  thought,  to  make  sure,  she  would  make  her 
first  trial  before  her  aunt  in  the  drawing-room.  And  it  was 
all  quite  successful  until  the  first  stagger  of  the  little  crea- 
ture ;  then  she  hesitated  ;  then  she  shook  her  head.  Off 
came  the  bell-jar  at  once  ;  she  opened  the  window,  and  cut 


SHANDOxY  BELLS.  155 

the  string,  and  out  went  Jack  Sparrow.    Nothing  would 
induce  her  to  repeat  the  experiment." 

"  I  should  not  have  thought  she  was  so  sentimental," 
said  Fitzgerald. 

"Ah,  that's  just  it,"  said  the  Doctor,  as  he  heated  a  bit 
of  copper  wire  at  a  gas  jet.  "  A  woman  never  ceases  to  be 
a  woman,  whatever  she  is  at.  Her  reason  fails  her  when 
she  is  confronted  by  suffering;  her  heart  overmasters  her 
head.  But  in  pure  science  that  girl  might  have  done  some- 
thing if  she  had  had  proper  training.  She  has  a  fine  quality 
of  brain.  I  can  tell  how  much  people  know  by  their  ques- 
tions. Her  questions  are  always  sharp  and  to  the  point. 
When  she   comes  here    she    knows  precisely   what    she 

wants " 

The  good  Doctor  seemed  to  like  talking  about  Mary 
Chetwynd ;  but  on  this  occasion  he  was  checked  by  the 
appearance  of  the  young  lady  herself,  who  arrived  quite 
alone.  She  seemed  surprised  to  find  Fitzgerald  there, 
though  she  said  nothing  beyond  an  ordinary  greeting.  She 
at  once  went  forward  to  the  table ;  and  the  Doctor  was 
particular  in  finding  her  a  chair,  though  the  others  who 
were  now  arriving  were  allowed  to  stand  about  anyhow. 

What  followed  was  quite  unintelligible  to  Fitzgerald, 
for  at  that  time  the  theory  of  spectroscopy  was  much  less 
familiar  to  the  public  that  it  is  nowadays,  when  every 
second  schoolgirl  has  a  spectroscope  in  her  pocket.  But 
if  the  meaning  of  the  experiments  was  dark  to  him,  the 
manners  of  the  students  were  interesting  enough ;  and  he 
could  readily  distinguish  between  the  serious  ones,  who 
wore  mostly  silent,  or  only  asking  a  question  now  and 
again,  and  the  flippant  ones,  who  exclaimed  with  terror  at 
the  ghastly  appearances  of  each  other's  faces  when  a  little 
common  salt  was  ignited  at  a  Bunsen  burner,  and  who 
cried,  "  Oh,  how  sweetly  lovely  !  "  when  a  trifle  of  chloride 
of  lithium  spread  abroad  a  rose-red  flame.  But  perhaps  it 
was  the  demeanor  of  Mary  Chetwynd  that  most  engaged 
his  attention  ;  and  he  could  see  that  her  questions  were  the 
most  promptly  answered,  and  that  to  her  most  of  the  ex- 
planations were  addressed.  Fitzgerald,  standing  apart  by 
the  mantelpiece,  and  observing,  out  of  that  motley  group 
only  these  two — the  long,  lean,  pale-faced  teacher,  and  the 
young  lady  student  who  sat  in  a  chair  there  following  his 
words  with  a  serious  attention — began  to  dream  dreams. 
Why  should  not  these  two  cold  intelligences  go  through  the 


156  •  SHANDON  BELLS. 

world  together,  like  twin  stars  sailing  through  the  night  ? 
He  was  considerably  her  elder,  to  be  sure  ;  but  the  girl  who 
was  sitting  there,  with  the  fine,  serious,  thoughtful  face,  was 
more  likely  to  think  of  his  high  reputation  than  of  his 
years.  What  a  strange  love-making  it  would  be  !  Moon- 
lit walks  with  disquisitions  on  the  spectrum  of  Sirus.  Th« 
Bunsen  burner  looked  ghostly  enough  ;  but  he  knew  that 
Don  Fierna  and  the  elves  would  fly  away  from  it.  He 
eould  scarcely  help  laughing  when  he  thought  of  these  two 
tall  persons  standing  on  each  of  the  little  stream,  and  hold- 
ing each  other's  hand.  What  would  the  phrase  be  ?  "Over 
HO"^  in  rapid  motion  ?  "  And  then  he  thought  of  Kitty. 
Kitty  did  not  know,  probably,  that  water  consisted  of 
hydrogen  and  oxygen ;  but  Kitty  knew  how  to  make  love. 
He  sent  her  a  kiss  in  imagination.  By  this  time  of  the 
night  she  would  be  at  home — away  up  there  on  the  hill, 
opposite  Shandon  Bells. 

These  speculations  about  the  possible  future  of  Dr.  Bude 
and  Miss  Mary  Chetwynd  were  somewhat  rudely  dispelled 
by  the  entrance  of  a  stout  and  comely  dame  in  rustling 
black  silk,  who  cheerfully  greeted  the  various  pupils,  and 
kissed  Miss  Chetwynd  very  affectionately,  and  then, 
addressing  the  lecturer  as  "  My  dear,"  asked  him  for  cer- 
tain keys.  The  next  minute  Fitzgerald  was  introduced  to 
this  buxom  and  good-humored-looking  lady,  who  turned 
out  to  be  Mrs.  Bude ;  so  that  he  had  to  bid  good-by  to 
that  horoscope  of  the  scientific  lovers.  Mrs.  Bude  did  not 
remain  long;  she  was  evidently  in  a  hurry;  Fitzgerald  re- 
turned to  the  contemplative  study  of  the  heads  before  him, 
as  these  were  illumined  from  time  to  time  by  the  various 
colors  of  different  metals. 

Something  else  was  going  forward,  however,  on  this 
first  floor.  The  drawing-room,  with  which  this  observatory 
was  connected,  had  been  brilliantly  lit  up  ;  and  now  steps 
could  be  heard  on  the  stairs  outside,  and  the  names  of 
guests  being  announced  as  they  reached  the  door.  Then 
some  of  these  began  to  stroll  from  the  drawing-room  into 
the  observatory;  and  very  soon  the  Doctor  was  busy 
enougli,  with  greeting  these  new-comers,  and  with  trj'ing 
to  sliow  them  something  they  could  understand.  His 
patience  and  good-humor  seemed  to  Fitzgerald  admirable. 
"  Oh,  what  a  lovely  green  I  "  "  Oh,  how  sweetly  pretty  !  " 
"Must  I  shut  one  eye  to  look  through?"  "  Doctor,  why 
should   one   line   be  so    much   clearer   than    the    other?* 


SHANDON  BELLS.  Vm 

**  Anrl  so  you  know  that  all  these  things  are  in  the  sun  ?  " 
*'  Do  show  my  husband  that  pretty  green  color  again !  "  The 
good  doctor  appeared  to  be  talking  to  all  these  ladies  and 
gentlemen  at  once ;  sometimes  frankly  laughing  at  their 
questions  ;  and  not  at  all  displeased  that  he  should  be 
addressed  as  if  he  were  the  conductor  of  a  show.  Fitz- 
gerald could  perceive  that  Miss  Chetwynd  was  calmly 
regarding  the  new-comers ;  once  or  twice  he  caught  her 
smiling  to  herself. 

Amid  the  crowd  of  people  who  kept  strolling  in  from 
the  large  and  well-lit  drawing-room  to  the  small  and  dusty 
laboratory,  and  strolling  back  again,  there  was  one  lady 
who  very  much  interested  him,  partly  because  she  was  re^ 
markably  pretty,  and  partly  because  of  a  chance  exclama- 
tion of  hers  that  he  overheard.  The  Doctor  was  explain- 
ing to  a  little  group  of  people  the  source  of  color  in  objects 
— the  absorption  or  reflection  of  the  different  rays  of  liglit, 
and  so  forth;  and  in  illustration  he  brought  a  little  bunch 
of  scarlet  geraniums  in  a  glass,  turned  off  the  liglit,  then 
ignited  some  common  salt  at  the  Bunsen  burner,  producing 
a  powerful  yellow  flame.  Of  course  the  geraniums  became 
of  a  ghastly  gray;  and  this  pretty  lady,  perhaps  not  quite 
understanding  that  nothing  had  happened  to  them,  ex- 
claimed to  herself,  "  Poor  things!"  Fitzgerald  liked  her 
for  that.  She  seemed  to  recognize  some  principle  of  life  in 
the  flowers,  as  though  they  were  associated  with  humanity 
somehow  ;  and  although  there  might  have  been  no  profound 
intention  in  her  remark,  and  although,  when  the  gas  was 
lit  again,  the  geraniums  were  found  to  be  quite  as  scarlet 
as  ever,  nevertheless  Fitzgerald  was  convinced  that  she 
must  be  a  nice  sort  of  woman.  Imagine,  then,  his  surprise 
when,  later  in  the  evening,  the  experiments  being  all  over, 
and  he  himself,  doubtful  whether  he  ought  to  remain,  and 
yet  anxious  to  send  some  account  of  so  brilliant  an  assem- 
blage to  Kitty,  rather  keeping  himself  in  the  background, 
he  found  himself  dragged  from  his  obscurity  by  the  diligent 
Doctor,  and  forthwith  introduced  to  this  very  lady,  and 
directed  to  take  her  dow^nstairs  to  supper.  Not  only  tliat, 
but  the  name  she  bore  was  also  that  of  a  distinguished 
Academician.  Was  it  possible,  he  asked  himself,  as  he 
conducted  her  downstairs,  that  she  should  be  the  wife  of 
the  great  painter  ?  He  determined  to  And  out ;  here, 
indeed,  would  be  something  to  talk  over  with  John  lioss. 


158  SHANDON  BELLS. 

Well,  he  got  her  a  place  at  the  long  table,  and  timidly 
asked  her  what  she  would  take — a  sandwich,  perhaps? 

"  I'm  not  so  yonng  as  I  look,"  said  this  pretty,  English- 
looking  woman,  with  the  large  girlish  gray  eyes.  "  I  am 
the  mother  of  three  children,  and  at  ray  time  of  life  I  know 
better  than  to  destroy  myself  with  sandwiches.  No — any- 
thing else  yon  can  get !  " 

She  was  an  amazingly  frank  person,  and  very  pleasant 
m  her  speech  and  her  laugh.  When  he  had  got  her  some 
cold  turkey,  and  some  bread,  and  a  glass  of  claret,  he  ven- 
tured to  ask  her,  after  some  vague  reference  to  something 
on  the  walls,  whether  she  was  very  fond  of  pictures. 

"  I  admire  my  husband's,  of  course,"  she  said. 

Then  he  knew  he  was  right. 

"Oh,  of  course,"  said  he,  with  greater  confidence. 
"  Every  one  does  that.  I  suppose,  now,"  he  added,  rather 
hesitatingly,  "your  husband  has  become  so  accustomed  to 
his  distinguished  position — I  mean  so  familiar  with  his 
place  in  the  Academy — that  he  couldn't  quite  realize  the 
anxiety  of  the  outside  men,  of  those  who  are  not  well 
known,  about  the  fate  of  their  pictures?  That  would  not 
interest  him  much,  would  it  ?  I  mean  it  would  not  be  pos- 
sible to  induce  him  to  interest  himself  in — in  helping,  for  ex- 
ample— an  artist  who  was  not  known " 

This  was  not  at  all  satisfactory,  especially  as  she  seemed 
to  imagine  he  was  pleading  for  himself. 

"  Are  you  an  artist  ?  "  she  asked  at  length,  with  a  frank 
look. 

"  Oh  no." 

'*  Well,  then,  to  tell  you  the  truth,"  said  she,  "  I  don't 
know  what  anxiety  the  outsiders  may  feel,  but  it  isn't  half 
of  the  anxiety  they  cause  me.  I  know  when  my  husband  is 
on  the  Hanging  Committee  it  thoroughly  breaks  him  down 
for  three  weeks  after.  It  is  by  far  the  hardest  work  of  the 
year  for  him.  And  then  the  thanks  ! — to  be  abused  by  the 
public,  and  accused  of  envy  by  the  outsiders.  Envy,  in- 
deed?    I  wonder  who  it  is  that  my  husband  needs  envy?" 

"  Why,  not  any  one,"  said  Fitzgerald,  warmly ;  for  he 
liked  the  human  nature,  the  frank  sincerity,  of  this  woman. 

"  I  wish  they'd  let  the  outsiders  come  in  and  hang  their 
own  pictures  for  themselves,"  she  said,  with  a  laugh.  "  I 
suppose  they'd  all  quite  agree.  I  wish  they  would  paint 
better,  and  grumble  less.  ' 

"  Oh,  but  the  outsider  I  was  thinking  of  is  not  like 


S  11  AND  ON  BELLS.  1 59 

tliat,"  said  Fitzgerald,  pleasantly,  for  he  was  not  in  the 
least  offended  by  her  humorous  petulance.  "  He  paints 
very  well,  and  does  not  grumble  at  all.  He  is  quite  con- 
tent. Only,  I  thought  if  your  husband  would  be  so  kind  as 
merely  to  remember  his  name,  and  look  at  his  work  when 

it  is  sent  in " 

"  But  my  husband  was  on  the  Council  last  year ;  so  he 
won't  be  again  for  some  time — thank  goodness  !  " 

"  So  there  is  no  use  in  my  asking  you  to  intercede  ?  " 
"  No,  not  even  if  you  offer  to  bribe  me  with  sandwiches. 
But,"  she  added,  looking  up  at  him  for  a  moment,  "  what 
is  your  friend's  name  ?  " 
"John  Ross." 

"  That  is  not  a  difficult  name  to  remember.  John  Ross, 
Why  are  you  interested  in  him — you  are  not  Scotch?  " 

"  He  is  a  neighbor  of  mine ;  and — and  he  does  good 
work,  I  think,  and  ought  to  be  better  known." 
"  Landscape  or  figures?  " 
"  Landscape." 

"  I  guessed  as  much.  The  Scotchmen  take  to  landscape 
because  they  can't  draw.  Now  take  me  back,  please,  for  I 
must  fetch  my  husband  and  get  home;  and  I  shan't  forget 
your  friend's  name,  for  I  never  had  sandwiches  offered  me 
as  a  bribe  before." 

He  escorted  her  upstairs  again,  and  then  seized  the 
first  oppoi'tunity  of  slipping  away.  In  the  hall  he  found  he 
had  been  preceded  by  Miss  Chetwynd,  who,  quite  alone, 
was  tying  something  round  her  neck,  the  night  being  cold. 
He  hesitated  for  a  second,  not  quite  knowing  what  was 
proper  for  him  to  do ;  and  then,  at  a  venture,  he  went  for- 
ward, and  said, 

"  Miss  Chetwynd,  can  I  get  your  carriage  for  you  ?  " 
"  No,  thank  you,"  she  said,  as  he  thought,  a  trifle  un- 
graciously and  stiffl[y.*  '*  My  cab  is  outside.     I  know  the 
man." 

The  servant  opened  the  hall  door,  and  she  passed  out, 
Fitzgerald  lingering  for  a  moment,  under  pretence  of  but- 
toning his  coat.  Her  refusal  to  allow  him  to  be  of  this 
slight  service  had  been,  as  he  considered,  somewhat  too  ex- 
plicit. What  had  he  done  ?  Or  was  she  unaware  that  her 
manner  was  at  times  a  little  too  decided  and  cold  and 
repellent?" 

It  mattered  not  to  him.  He  walked  away  through  the 
chill  dark  night  to  the  vacant  courtyard  and  the  empty 


IGO  SHANDON  BELLS. 

room,  tliinking  wliat  a  memorable  and  wonderful  evening 
that  had  been  for  him.  Perliaps  never  such  another  would 
'  'ippen  to  him;  for  when  again  was  he  likely  to  meet  a 
dat  man  of  science  to  carry  him  off,  on  the  friendly  in- 
piration  of  the  moment,  and  introduce  him  to  such  a 
gathering?  And  indeed  the  spectacle  had  moved  him  to 
neither  emulation  or  regret.  It  was  not  the  way  of  life  he 
would  choose  if  it  were  open  to  him.  He  had  his  own 
dreams  and  ambitions,  his  own  notions  of  what  w^as  beauti- 
ful and  worth  having  in  the  world  ;  and  if  Mary  Chet- 
wynd  had  any  vague  fancy  that  he  wished  to  gain  an  en- 
trance into  distinguished  or  fashionable  society,  either 
through  a  scientific  doorway  or  through  any  other,  she  was 
quite  mistaken.  But  more  j^robably  she  had  not  even 
given  a  thought  to  the  matter ;  and  he  was  content. 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

A  MORNING  WALK  AND  OTHER  MATTERS. 

[N".  B.  —  This  chapter  may  very  conveniently  be 
passed  over  by  those  who  wish  to  get  on  with  "  the  story  "  ; 
for  it  contains  little  beyond  a  description  of  one  or  two  in- 
fluences which  were  at  this  time  in  a  measure  forming  the 
character  of  this  young  man,  and  so  far  shaping  the  work 
of  liis  after  life.] 

Next  morning  Fitzgerald  had  promised  to  go  for  a 
walk  with  his  Scotch  neighbor,  w^o  had  a  theory  that 
neither  could  he  paint  nor  his  companion  write  properly 
unless  they  went  forth  from  time  to  time  to  see  what  the 
outside  world  was  looking  like.  Moreover,  these  periodical 
excursions  were  undertaken  without  any  regard  to  the 
weather.  John  Ross  used  to  say  .that  anybody  could  ad- 
mire the  chromolithograph  aspects  of  nature,  but  that  it 
wanted  training  and  affectionate  care  and  watchfulness  to 
observe  the  beautifulness  of  gray  days  and  wet  roads  and 
wintry  skies.  Fitzgerald,  of  course,  was  nothing  loath. 
He  had  brought  his  shooting  boots  and  gaiters  with  hijii 
from  Ireland,  and  he  had  a  serviceable  waterproof;    he 


SHANDON  BELLS.  161 

was  just  as  ready  as  Ross  to  go  splashing  away  through  tho 
mud  to  Kew,  to  see  what  the  wilderness  part  of  the  Gar- 
dens (a  favorite  haunt  of  theirs,  and  but  little  known  to  the 
public)  was  like  in  driving  rain,  or  in  feathery  snow,  or  in 
clear  hard  frost  when  the  red  berries  shone  among  the 
green.  It  was  wonderful  how  interesting  the  world  had 
become  to  him.  He  no  longer  confined  his  attention,  when 
out  walking,  to  the  animals  and  birds  he  might  observe 
(with  rapid  calculations  as  to  whether  they  were  within 
shot  or  without)  ;  now,  if  there  was  nothing  else  to  be  seen, 
the  gradation  of  light  on  the  puddles  of  a  rainy  road  he 
found  to  be  quite  worth  looking  at.  Nothing  had  been 
taken  away  from  the  world,  but  a  great  deal  added.  It 
was  of  itself  something  that  he  had  learned  not  even  to  de- 
spise the  commonplace  gray  days  that  in  the  -winter  so  fre- 
quently hung  over  Chelsea. 

But  he  had  an  added  interest  in  these  various  perambu- 
lations of  which  his  companion  knew  nothing :  he  was  con- 
tinually on  the  outlook  for  some  pretty  little  cottage,  some 
quaint  river-side  house,  that  would  meet  with  the  approval 
of  Kitty's  black  eyes  when  the  great  time  came.  This  im- 
aginary nest-building  was  a  most  fascinating  kind  of  occu- 
pation. Sometimes  he  would  go  away  by  himself  and 
ramble  through  all  sorts  of  strange  suburban  places,  in  the 
hope  of  meeting  with  something  so  very  quaint  and  pictur- 
esque and  secluded  that  even  Kitty — who  rather  avoided 
that  subject,  and  would  not  express  any  preference  for 
town  or  country — might  have  her  curiosity  aroused.  So 
far  the  most  engaging  place  he  had  seen  was  a  small  odd- 
looking  house  in  Grosvenor  E-oad,  fronting  the  river.  It 
appeared  to  have  been  an  old-fashioned  tavern  at  one  time ; 
but  now  it  was  a  little  private  dwelling,  with  odd  inequali- 
ties about  the  windows  and  gables,  and  very  prettily  painted 
in  white  and  green.  Were  not  these  the  very  windows  for 
Kitty  to  adorn  with  trailing  plants  and  llower-boxes  ? 
Again  and  again,  at  a  convenient  distance,  he  stood  and 
watched  the  house,  and  tried  to  imagine  Kitty  actually 
there,  reaching  up  her  arras  to  put  a  branch  so,  or  so ;  per- 
haps singing  the  while,  perhaps  whistling  to  the  blackbird 
in  the  cage.  There  was  the  slight  drawback,  it  is  true, 
that  the  house  was  not  to  be  let ;  but  then  he  and  Kitty 
had  still  a*long  time  of  waiting  before  them,  and  who  knew 
what  might  not  happen  in  that  interval?  Besides,  where 
there   was  one  little  habitation  that  seemed  so  charming, 


162  SIIANDON  BELLS, 

there  might  be  others  ;  and  so,  whatever  subject  John  Ross 
might  be  descanting  on,  in  his  fiery-headed  fashion,  and 
however  attentively  Fitzgerald  might  be  listening,  there  was 
nothing  to  prevent  the  eyes  of  the  latter  from  wandering 
from  cottage  to  cottage,  from  villa  to  villa,  from  garden  to 
garden,  in  a  sort  of  vague  mechanical  quest  for  a  pretty 
resting-place  for  Kitty. 

But  this  particular  morning  was  clear  and  cold  and  fine 
— an  excellent  morning  for  walking ;  and  of  course  Fitz- 
gerald had  a  great  deal  to  tell  about  his  experiences  of  the 
previous  night,  and  his  proposal  to  take  up  some  of  his 
companion's  pictures  to  show  to  Mrs.  Chetwynd. 

"  You  see,  if  she  were  to  take  two  or  three  of  them,  it 
might  be  a  great  advantage  to  you,"  observed  Fitzgerald. 

"  It  would-be  a  very  distinct  and  solid  advantage,"  said 
the  red-bearded  gentleman,  with  a  laugh. 

"Oh,  but  I  mean  apart  from  the  money.  Mrs.  Chet- 
wynd knows  some  of  the  Academicians  ;  and  if  your  pic- 
tures were  seen  by  them  at  her  house,  don't  you  sec?  it 
might  do  you  good.  Oh,  tliat  reminds  me.  Imet  the  wife 
of  an  Academician  last  night.  I  sha'n'ttell  you  her  name, 
for  she  said  something  about  Scotch  artists  that  you  won't 
like." 

"What  was  it?" 

"  She  said  they  took  to  landscape  because  they  couldn't 
draw." 

Ko  doubt  Fitzgerald  repeated  this  wuth  the  malicious 
intention  of  making  his  companion  angry;  and  indeed  for 
a  moment  John  Ross  stood  stock-still ;  but  then  again  he 
laughed  good-naturedly,  and  continued  his  walking. 

"  Ay,  I'm  thinking  her  husband  maun  be  one  o'  the 
story-tellers." 

"  Story-tellers  ?  " 

"  There's  plenty  of  them  among  the  English  artists — 
men  who  ought  to  belong  to  your  business,  no'  to  mine. 
Pent  is  what  they  know  least  about ;  but  they  can  tell  a 
pretty  story — out  o'  a  book.  That  is  something,  after  all. 
If  they  know  little  about  color,  at  least  they  can  help  the 
ignorant  public  to  a  bit  of  sentiment  or  the  like.  But 
there's  one  thing  the  Scotch  have  done,  my  lad  ;  and  that 
again  and  again  ;  they  have  had  to  bring  both  English 
liteiature  and  art  back  to  nature.  It  was  wh*en  people 
were  given  over  to  the  wretched  artifeecialities  of  the 
Pope  school  that  Allan  Ramsay's  '  Gentle  Shepherd '  and 


SHANDON  BELLS.  163 

Thomson's  *  Seasons'  got  them  back  out  o'  that  hot-house 
to  look  at  real  nature  and  human  nature — — " 

"Pope?  Is  that  what  you  think  of  Pope?"  said  his 
companion,  eagerly ;  for  he  had  his  own  grudge  on  that 
score. 

"  Pope  ?  "  repeated  John  Ross.     "  I  consider " 

But,  as  it  turned  out,  there  was  to  be  no  conjoint  danc- 
ing on  a  dead  man's  grave,  for  at  t)ns  moment  Ross's  at 
tention  was  drawn  to  two  young  ladies  who  Avere  crossing 
the  Hammersmith  Road  in  front  of  them. 

"  Heaven  save  us  !  "  he  exclaimed.  "  Did  ever  ye  see 
the  like  o'  that?" 

"  Their  waists,  do  you  mean  ?  "  his  companion  said  ;  for, 
indeed,  the  two  young  ladies,  probably  sisters,  for  they 
were  dressed  precisely  alike,  had  waists  of  such  small  di- 
mensions that  more  than  one  person  had  turned  and  stared 
at  them. 

"  The  ignorant  craytures,"  said  John  Ross,  half  angrily, 
*'  to  think  that  men  admire  a  spectacle  like  that !  Have 
they  no  common-sense  ?  " 

"  They  must  have  pretty  good  muscles,  at  all  events,  to 
have  pulled  themselves  in  like  that,"  his  companion  said. 

"  But  bless  me,  common-sense  should  tell  a  young  lass 
that  it's  the  foolishest  thing  in  the  world  for  her  to  remind 
people  that  she  has  an  internal  economy  at  all.  She  ought 
to  have  none,  in  your  imagination.  She  ought  to  be  all 
S})irit  and  poetry;  just  an  amiable  young  life  looking  out 
on  the  world  with  sweetness  and  innocence  and  a  wish  to 
be  friendly.  But  when  you  see  a  waist  like  that,  confound 
it,  ye're  made  to  ask  yourself  where  the  mischief  she  has  put 
her  liver  !  " 

John  Ross  seemed  to  resent  the  appearance  of  these 
young  ladies  as  if  he  had  sustained  some  personal  injury. 

"  I  say  that  anything  that  suggests  that  a  young  lass 
has  a  spine,  or  a  liver,  or  anything  of  the  kind,  is  a  most 
intolerable  nuisance,"  said  Ross,  angrily.  "  And  to  deform 
one  of  the  most  beautiful  things  in  the  world,  too — that  is, 
the  figure  of  a  young  woman  from  the  shoulders  to  the 
waist.     Look  at  that ;  do  you  know  what  that  is  ?" 

He  took  out  his  sketch-book,  and  made  a  few  rapid 
lines  on  one  of  the  blank  pages. 

"  A  vase,  I  suppose." 

"  That  is  the  Canopian  vase  ;  that  has  always  been  un- 
derstood   to   have  been  imitated  from  the  female  figure 


164  SHANDON  BELLS. 

15ut  look  what  it  would  be  if  the  base  were  to  be  narrowed 
like  the  waist  of  one  of  those  girls  !  Look  ;  where  is  your 
proportion  now?    What  kind  of  a  vase  is  that  ? " 

"  Well,  if  you  are  only  drew  the  lines  down  a  little  bit 
farther,  it  would  be  like  one   of  the  Pompeiian  earthen 

jars " 

"  Ah,  the  jars  they  stuck  into  the  ground.  Poor  cray 
tures,  that's  just  what  they  lasses  there  are  working  for.  1 
wonder  if  they  havena  got  a  mother  to  skelp  them. 

However,  the  disappearance  of  the  young  ladies  round 
a  corner  removed  the  cause  of  his  grumbling ;  and  very 
soon  he  had  quite  recovered  his  equanimity,  for  now  the 
air  was  growing  clearer,  the  roads  wider,  the  gardens  be- 
tween the  houses  Avere  larger,  and  the  sunlight  was 
making  the  wintry  trees  and  bushes  look  quite  cheerful. 

'*Look  at  that,  now,"  Ross  said,  coming  to  a  sudden 
halt  before  some  tall  maples,  the  branches  of  which,  reach- 
ing away  into  the  blue,  were  of  the  most  brilliant  gold 
where  the  bark  had  peeled  off.  "  Can  you  get  anything 
stronger  in  color  than  that  in  the  middle  of  summer  ? 
Look  how  fine  the  blue  is  above  !  " 

"  Yes,  but  it  would  look  top-heavy  in  a  picture,  wouldn't 
it?" 

*'  ^N'o,  no,  my  lad ;  there  you're  mistaken.  Sunlight  always 
comes  out ;  no  fear  of  yellow  not  holding  its  own.  If  you 
were  painting  that,  you  would  find  the  blue  go  as  far  back 
as  ever  ye  wanted  it.  I  think  if  I  were  a  king,  that's  what 
I  would  have  in  my  dining-chamber — solid  gold  up  to 
about  the  height  of  your  head  ;  and  then  above  that  all  a 
pale  blue,  and  the  roof  a  pale  blue,  so  that  you  could  let 
your  eyes  go  away  a  great  distance  when  you  lifted  them 
from  the  table.  And  then,  in  case  the  solid  gold  of  the 
wall  would  make  you  feel  as  if  you  were  in  a  metal  case,  I 
would  have  a  procession  of  figures,  all  in  pure  scarlet,  per- 
haps mediaeval  figures,  with  trellis- work,  or  better  still,  a 
Greek  procession " 

"You  would  have  plenty  of  color,  then,"  said  Fitz- 
gerald, laughing.     "  Gold,  scarlet,  and  pale  blue." 

"  The  three  primaries  ;  why  not  ?  " 

But  as  there  was  not  much  apparent  chance  of  either  of 
these  two  having  to  study  this  matter  practically,  it  was 
abandoned  ;  and  very  soon  they  found  themselves  in  the 
wilderness  lying  between  the  formal  part  of  Kew  Gardens 
and  tlie  river.     Here  it  was  a  great  delight  to  Fitzgerald 


SHAN  DON  BELLS,  165 

to  find  liimself  so  completely  removed  from  all  the  sur- 
roundings of  town  life — watching  the  squirrels,  and  the 
birds,  and  what  not,  while  his  companion  now  and  again 
took  jottings  of  what  he  called  the  anatomy  of  the  different 
kinds  of  trees.  The  sunlight  was  quite  clear  here,  and 
tliere  was  plenty  of  rich  color  among  the  dark  green  firs  and 
the  browns  and  reds  of  withered  leaves,  and  the  glowing 
scarlet  of  the  berries  that  still  remained  on  the  bushes. 
Then  they  walked  back  to  the  bridge ;  and  for  the  first 
time  since  he  had  left  Inisheen  Fitzgerald  got  into  a  boat, 
and  enjoyed  the  new  sensation  of  managing  a  pair  of  sculls, 
while  Koss  sat  in  the  stern,  and  seemed  pleased  that  the 
pull  against  the  heavy  current  was  just  about  as  much  as 
Master  Willie  wanted.  And  then  they  had  a  snack  of 
luncheon  at  the  nearest  hotel ;  and  then  tliey  set  out  to 
walk  back  to  London,  with  the  chill  gray  dusk  of  the  after- 
noon slowdy  settling  down. 

But  when  they  did  get  back  to  the  big  hollow-sounding 
studio,  Fitzgerald  discovored  that  he  had  a  very  difficult 
task  before  him.  Whether  it  was  that  John  Ross  was 
overfond  of  these  children  of  his  brain  and  skill,  and  dis- 
liked parting  with  them,  or  whether  it  was  that  he  detested 
the  pecuniary  side  of  his  profession  altogether,  Fitzgerald 
found  that  he  could  get  no  help  from  him  in  the  selection 
of  the  pictures  or  sketches  he  wished  to  take  to  Mrs. 
Chetwynd. 

"  HoAV  can  I  tell  what  any  one's  fancy  may  be  ?  "  said 
he,  almost  surlily.  "Most  likely  she  Avould  rather  have  a 
picture  of  a  white  lap-dog  with  a  bit  of  pink  ribbon  round 
his  neck." 

"  Well,  we  wnll  see,"  remarked  Fitzgerald,  who  had  at 
length  chosen  out  half  a  dozen  canvases,  and  was  tying 
them  together.  "And  now  I  must  have  a  cab — for  the 
first  time  since  I  came  to  London  ;  but  I  expect  you  to 
pay  that,  Ross,  if  I  sell  any  of  your  pictures.  That  will  be 
my  commission." 

Moreover,  he  was  himself  a  little  anxious.  As  the  han- 
som (which  was  not  quite  so  smooth-going  as  that  of 
Dr.  Bude)  carried  him  up  to  Hyde  Park  Gardens,  he 
began  to  suspect  that  some  of  Ross's  disinclination  had 
probably  arisen  from  the  fear  that  his  w^ork  might  be  mis- 
understood, and  subjected  to  the  ignominy  of  refusal.  That 
was  bad  enough  at  the  Academy ;  but  in  the  case  of  the 
Academy  there  was  also  the  consoling  possibility  that  it 


1G6  SHAN  DO  A-  BELLS 

was  want  of  space  which  was  the  practical  cause  of  rejec- 
tion. Mr.  Ross  was  a  ])roud  man  in  his  way,  li4>tle  as  he 
was  disposed  to  overrate  the  value  of  his  work.  A»d  Fitz- 
gerald, when  he  was  actually  carrying  theses  canvases  up- 
stairs, began  to  think  that  he  had  assumed  a  very  serioua 
responsibility. 

There  is  no  doubt  that  this  kind  old  lady,  who  examined 
these  landscapes  as  well  as  she  could  with  the  aid  of  a  large 
m^agnifying-glass,  would  at  once,  in  her  good-humored  way, 
have  purchased  some  of  them,  or  perhaps  even  the  whole 
of  them  ;  but  this  he  would  not  hear  of.  It  was  not  alto- 
gether as  a  favor  to  an  unknown  artist  that  he  wished  to 
dispose  of  them,  he  gently  reminded  her  ;  perhaps  if  one  or 
two  of  her  friends  saw  these  studies  they  would  be  very 
glad  to  get  them.  In  any  case  he  would  rather  have  her 
wait  for  their  opinion. 

"  Oh,  very  well,"  said  she,  good-naturedly.  "  And  the 
price  ?  " 

Fitzgerald  flushed  uneasily. 

"  I  could  not  get  my  friend  to  say  exactly.     Perhaps — 

perhaps  if  you  were  to  ask  Mr. to  value  them —  Being 

an  Academician,  he  ought  to  know." 

"  Oh,  but  that  would  never  do.  So  much  depends  on 
circumstances.  So  much  depends  on  your  friend's  own 
valuation.     Have  you  no  guess  ?  " 

"  Well,"  said  Fitzgerald,  desperately,  "  I  may  as  well 
make  a  guess  ;  for  Mr.  Ross  won't  help  me!  I  think  they 
are  worth  more — but  he  is  not  known,  of  course — and  I 
don't  think  £20  each  would  be  too  much " 

"  Would  it  be  too  little  ?  "  said  the  little  old  lady,  witL 
a  charming  frankness.  "  For  who  knows  what  fancy  some 
of  our  friends  may  take  for  them  ?" 

"  If  you    would    not  mind  asking  Mr. "  he  again 

suggested. 

*'  Well,  I  will,"  she  said.  "  On  that  basis,  that  if  we 
take  them  at  £20  each,  your  friend  won't  be  greatly  dis- 
satisfied." 

"  I  think  he  will  be  very  much  pleased.  Only,"  he  ad- 
ded, with  some  hesitation,  "  if  I  might  ask  another  favor,  it 

would  be  that  supposing  Mr. does  not  come  here  this 

evening,  or  very  soon,  indeed,  you  might  not  be  too  long  in 
arriving  at  some  decision.  The  fact  is,  I  would  not  like 
Mr.  Ross  to  be  thinking  that  his  studies  were  waiting  out 
on  approval,  as  it  were " 


SHANDON  BELLS.  167 

"  I  understand  perfectly,"  said  the  good  old  lady,  "  and 
there  will  be  no  delay,  I  promise  you." 

That  night  Fitzgerald  was  in  Ross's  studio.  Both  were 
smoking  and  talking ;  but  Ross  had  his  sketch-book  on  his 
knee,  and  also  handy  a  box  of  water-colors.  He  was  illus- 
trating a  favorite  theory  of  his  that  after  such  a  walk  as 
they  had  had  that  morning,  the  memory  recalls  most  clearly, 
if  not  exclusively,  such  objects  as  were  lit  up  by  the  sun- 
light ;  and  he  was  jotting  down  memoranda  of  things  he 
could  remember — the  brass  knob  on  a  house  door,  the  zinc 
roof  of  a  conservatory,  a  red  cart-wheel  against  a  gray  wall, 
and  so  forth,  and  so  forth — in  an  aimless  sort  of  way,  and 
mainly  for  amusement. 

"  There's  somebody  going  up  your  stairs,"  he  said. 

Fitzgerald  went  out  and  called,  "  Who's  there  ?  " 

*'  A  letter  for  Mr.  Fitzgerald,"  said  a  voice  from  above. 

"  All  right.     Bring  it  here.     Do  you  want  an  answer  ?  " 

"  No,  sir,"  said  the  lad,  "  I  believe  not,  sir.  Good-night, 
sir." 

"  Good-night." 

Fitzgerald  hesitated.  He  knew  the  letter  was  from 
Mrs.  Chetwynd,  for  the  address  was  in  Miss  Chetwynd's 
handwriting ;  and  he  would  gladly,  for  the  sake  of  prep- 
aration, have  opened  it  in  his  own  room.  But  here  was 
Ross  calling  from  within  to  know  what  was  the  matter,  and 
so  he  boldly  resolved  to  enter  and  open  the  letter  before 
him,  whatever  the  decision  might  be. 

"Dear  Me.  Fitzgerald"  (this  was  what  Miss  Chet- 
wynd's clear,  beautiful,  precise  handwriting  said), — "My 
aunt  says  you  seemed  anxious  to  know  as  soon  as  possible 
the  fate  of  your  friend's  sketches,  and  desires  me  to  send 
you  this  note  to-night.     They  have  been  mucli  admired,  I 

believe.      Mr. took  one.  Dr.   Bude  another,  and  my 

aunt  keeps  the  remaining  four;  and  I  am  asked  to  enclose 
this  check  for  £120,  as  she  thinks  that  was  about  what  you 
suggested. 

"  Yours  faithfully, 

"Mary  Chetwynd." 

"  Now  isn't  that  a  kind  old  lady  ? "  said  Fitzgerald 
"  Fancy  her  taking  the  trouble  to  send  a  message  at  this 
time  of  night !  Weil,  what  do  you  say,  Ross  ?  Is  it  enough  ? 
You  know  I  had  nothing  to  guide  me.     Is  it  enough  ?  " 


168  SHANDON  BELLS, 

John  Ross  was  holding  the  letter  in  his  hand,  and  star* 
ing  at  it  absently. 

"  I  wonder  which  one  he  took  ?  I  would  give  anything 
just  to  find  that  out,"  said  he,  apparently  to  himself. 

Fitzgerald  took  the  letter  from  him,  and  glanced  at  it 
again. 

"  Why,  of  course,"  said  he.  "  I  did  not  notice  it.  That 
was  the  Academician  himself  who  took  one.  I  shall  find 
out  to-morrow  which  one  he  bought.  But  I  want  to  know 
wliether  the  money  is  sufficient." 

"  Plenty — plenty.     Enough  and  to  spare." 

"  Then  I  will  trouble  you  for  eighteenpence,  that  I  paid 
for  that  cab." 

"  We'll  make  a  better  job  of  it  than  that,  my  lad,"  said 
said  he,  coming  to  the  money  question  at  last,  and  shoving 
the  check  across  the  small  table.  "  Ye'll  just  take  a  clear 
half  o'  that ;  and  ye'll  take  a  holiday  ;  and  go  away  over  to 
Ireland  and  see  the  young  lass  that  ye're  aye  thinking  about, 
though  ye  will  not  say  so  ;  and  cheer  lier  up.  That's  sen- 
sible." 

Fitzgerald  gave  a  slight  backward  touch  to  the  check. 

"  No,  thank  you,"  said  he  (his  face  a  little  red).  "  I  am 
not  in  want  of  money,  thank  you  all  the  same.  What  I 
am  in  want  of,"  he  added,  after  a  second,  and  with  his  eyes 
grown  distant,  "  is  some  more  certain  employment.  Then 
I  would  go  back  to  Ireland  gladly  enough  for  a  day  or  two. 
But  this  literary  business  is  so  difficult." 

"  Is  it  worse  than  pentin  ?  "  the  other  demanded.  "  When 
liave  I  had  as  much  money  as  that  at  one  time  ?  Never  in 
all  my  life  !  And  sooner  or  later  ye'll  just  drop  on  your 
feet  like  that ;  and  rfot  a  mere  chance,  such  as  that  is,  but 
a  settled  thing,  a  permanency ;  and  then  I  know  fine  what 
will  happen.  '  Whistle  and  I'll  come  to  ye,  my  lad  !' and 
it's  a'  smiles,  and  white  satin,  and  nervousness,  and  the 
laughing  and  joking  of  your  friends ;  and  if  ye  havena  a 
jar  o'  good  Scotch  whiskey  for  that  day,  then  my  name's 
not  John  Ross !  " 

"  In  the  meantime,"  said  Fitzgerald  looking  a  bit  more 
cheerful,  "  I  propose '* 

"  In  the  meantime,  are  you  going  to  take  the  money  ?  " 
said  Ross,  in  his  downright  way.  "  Why  not  ?  I  could 
not  have  got  as  much  for  them  myself.  And  I  liave  plenty 
to  ^o  on  with." 

"  Ko,"  says  Fitzgerald,  hastily ;  «  but  I'll  tell  what  you 


SHANDON  BELLS.  1G9 

can  do,  if  you  like.  Next  Saturday  Mrs.  Chetwynd  is  go- 
ing down  to  Hastings  until  the  Monday.  Now  on  tlie  Sat- 
urday we  shall  have  a  grand  holiday,  and  you  shall  pay  for 
everything,  from  the  rising  of  the  sun  till  the  going  down 
of  the  same — in  fact,  until  we  get  back  here." 

"  Most  certainly — most  certainly  ;  but  where  are  ye  go- 
ing this  time  ?  " 

''  Down  the  Thames — all  about  the  docks  and  wharves. 
I  have  not  smelt  tar,  or  stumbled  over  a  rope,  or  had  a  chat 
with  a  captain,  since  I  left  the  south  of  Ireland.  And  won't 
you  see  color  there,  if  the  day  is  fine — the  river,  the  barges, 
the  ruddy  sails " 

"  It's  done  with  ye,"  said  Ross,  decisively.  "  It's  done 
with  you.  And  we'll  get  our  dinner  somewhere — if  possible 
in  a  place  overlooking  the  river.  We  will  find  out  some 
old-fashioned  tavern — propped  up  on  piles,  maybe — with  a 
buxom  landlady  in  the  bar,  among  the  Schiedam  bottles 
and  the  silver,  and  the  landlord  a-coming  in  to  us  with  a 
bottle  o'  Madeira  forty  years  old,  and  sitting  down,  of 
course,  and  having  a  crack  w4'  us.  And  then — but  can  ye 
keep  a  secret  ?  " 

"What  is  it?" 

''Then,  I'm  thinking,  my  lad,  when  that  bottle's  opened, 
and  mum's  the  word  except  for  guesses — I'm  thinking,  with- 
out any  breach  of  secrecy  on  your  part,  and  without  any 
impudence  on  mine  :  what  do  ye  say,  then,  if,  when  that 
bottle  was  opened,  we  Avere  to  drink  a  glass  '  To  the  lass 
that^s  over  the  water' f  " 


CHAPTER  XVII. 

AN   APPARITION^. 


But  it  was  not  fated  that  Fitzgerald  should  go  to  the 
docks  ;  the  docks,  or  a  least  a  representative  of  them,  came 
to  him.  The  following  day,  early  in  the  afternoon,  he  was 
working  away  as  industriously  as  usual — as  industriously  as 
if  he  had  had  no  experience  of  the  coyness  or  indifference  of 
London  publishers  and  editors.  He  was  deeply  intent  on 
what  he  was  about ;  and  so,  when  he  heard  outside  the  pre- 


170  SHANDON  BELLS. 

liminary  tinkling  of  a  banjo,  and  made  sure  lie  was  about 
to  be  serenaded  by  a  nigger-minstrel,  he  rose  with  much 
angry  impatience  and  went  to  the  door,  not  quite  sure 
whether  the  b^st  way  to  get  rid  of  the  man  was  to  throw 
something  to  lim  or  to  throw  something  at  him. 

When,  however,  he  went  outside,  a  most  extraordinary 
scene  was  presented  to  him  in  the  courtyard  below.  It 
was  raining  hard  to  begin  with.  The  nigger- minstrel 
seemed  to  be  very  drunk  and  very  merry ;  and  lie  was  not 
alone  ;  for  backing  from  him,  apparently  in  abject  terror, 
was  a  singular-looking  creature,  whose  face  Fitzgerald  could 
not  see,  but  who  wore  a  pilot-jacket  much  too  big  for  him, 
and  sou'wester,  and  carried  a  large  bundle  slung  over  his 
shoulder  by  means  of  a  stick.  The  fiirther  that  this  little 
man  in  the  big  sou'wester  retreated — his  gestures  indicating 
a  cowering  fear — the  nearer  came  this  capering  soot-faced 
idiot  in  tlie  dress-coat,  white  breeches,  and  vast  pink  collar, 
singing  snatches  of  doggerel,  or  begging  for  money  with  a 
sort  of  drunken  facetiousness. 

"  Now,  Paddy,  a  sixpence  won't  hurt*  ye.  Not  a  six 
pence  for  the  poor  musician  ?  A  drop  o'  dog's-nose,  Paddy 
— twopennorth  o'  gin,  then,  old  man." 

Then  he  twanged  his  banjo  again,  and  capered  and 
skipped,  clearly  enjoying  the  obvious  fright  of  his  victim. 

'*  Where's  your  shillalagh,  Paddy  ?  Och,  but  ye're  the 
broth  of  a  boy.  Not  twopennorth  o'  gin  for  the  poor  musi- 
cian, Paddy  ? '' 

But  the  little  man  had  retreated  until  he  had  reached 
the  foot  of  the  stairs,  and  could  back  no  further.  In  his 
desperation  he  shouted  : — 

"  Away  wid  ye  !  Away  wid  ye  !  "  and  Fitzgerald  sud- 
denly fancied  that  the  voice  was  familiar  to  him. 

The  nigger  minstrel  was  not  to  be  balked  of  his  drunken 
fun.  He  skipped  and  danced  round  his  victim,  poking  at 
his  face  with  his  banjo.  Then  something  desperate  hap- 
pened all  at  once.  The  little  man  dropped  his  bundle,  and, 
with  the  stick  that  had  supported  it  in  his  hand,  seemed  to 
jump  at  his  enemy  like  a  wildcat. 

"  Blood  alive,  but  I'll  bate  your  head  in  !  "  he  yelled ; 
and  the  next  moment  there  wae  a  battering  of  blows,  that 
seemed  all  the  more  terrible  because  most  of  them  fell  on 
the  banjo,  with  which  the  nigger  was  vainly  defending 
him^self.     Fitzgerald  thought  it  was  high  time  to  interfere, 


SHANDON  BELLS,        gf'r^  %m  ,  ,        171 

"  Here,  you  ! "  he  called  from  the  to^^^^J^^e  stairs. 
"  What  are  you  doing  there  ?  " 

The  scrimmage  ceased  for  a  second  as  the  Itttle  man 
looked  up  ;  then  he  uttered  a  slight  cry.  In  three  bounds 
he  was  up  the  stairs. 

"  Oh,  Masther  Willie,  'tis  yoursilf  at  last !  "  he  criea 
*'  Glory  be  to  God  !  Glory  be  to  God  !  'Tis  yoursilf  at 
last  Masther  Willie " 

But  in  his  agitation  Andy  the  Hopper  could  not  get  rid 
of  his  alarm ;  and  a  frightened  glance  told  him  that  his 
enemy  was  also  coming  up  the  stairs.  • 

"  Away  wid  ye !  Away  wid  ye,  ye  bligard  !  Oh,  Mas- 
ther Willie,  what  kind  of  a  man  is  that  ?  Sure  I  thought 
he  was  the  divil !  " 

"Did  you  never  see  a  nigger-minstrel  before?"  said 
Fitzgerald,  laughing,  but  keeping  an  eye  on  the  musician. 
"Well,  if  he  isn't  the  divil,  An3y,  you'll  have  the  divil  to 
pay  ;  for  you've  broken  his  banjo." 

"  And  sarve  the  bligard  right — the  dhirty  bligard  !  " 
said  Andy,  who  was  much  braver  now,  with  Master  Willie 
in  front  of  him.  "  Sure  I  tould  him  I'd  bate  him,  and  I 
did-the  bligard!" 

But  the  minstrel  was  no  longer  facetious ;  nor  was  he 
irate  either.  He  was  morose.  He  contemplated  the 
smashed  strings  of  the  banjo  with  a  gloomy  air.  Then  he 
tried  to  get  Fitzgerald  to  believe  that  this  savage  Paddy 
had  attacked  him ;  and  when  Fitzgerald  remarked  that  he 
had  seen  the  affair  from  the  beginning,  the  complaint 
dwindled  down  into  a  lachrymose  petition  for  some  com- 
pensation. Would  the  gentleman  look  at  what  had  been 
done  to  his  hat  and  wig  ?  Would  the  kind  gentleman  give 
a  poor  man  a  drop  o'  something  to  drink,  to  keep  out  the 
rheumatics  !  At  last  he  went  away,  pacified  with  a  shil- 
ling ;  but  after  Fitzgerald  and  his  new  companion  had  gone 
inside  and  shut  the  door,  they  heard  an  extraordinary  burst 
of  shrill  laughter  in  the  courtyard  below,  as  if  ^  the  depart- 
ing minstrel  had  just  remembered  again  the  joke  he  had 
played  off  on  the  frightened  Faddy. 

"  Well,  Andy,  sit  down  and  tell  me  what  has  brought 
you  to  London." 

But  Andy  was  quite  bewildered.  His  delight  at  seeing 
the  young  master  again  ;  the  fright  of  his  encounter  with 
the  black  creature  j  the  strangeness  of  this  big,  bare  apart 


1  ;2  S HAND  ON  BELLS, 

incnt — tliese  seemed  to  deprive  liiin  of  speech.     And  then 
he  uttered  an  exclamation  : — 

"  Oil,  mother  o^  Moses,  if  the  blisjard  hasn't  taken  my 
bag!" 

"What  bag,  Andy?" 

"  Tlie  bag  wid  the  snipes,  and  the  tale  and  the  hares. 
Sure  the  sight  of  your  face,  Masther  Willie,  has  dhrew 
away  my  sinses " 

"  You  must  have  left  it  down  below — go  and  see." 

Andy  quickly  moved  to  the  door,  and  then  as  suddenly 
paused.         • 

"  Sure,  Masther  Willie,  axin'  your  pardon,  would  you 
come  too  ?  " 

Fitzgerald  burst  out  laughing,  but  he  went  to  the  top 
of  the  stairs. 

"  The  fellow's  gone,  Andy ;  you  need  not  be  afraid. 
And  so  is  your  bag,  I  imagine." 

But,  to  Andy's  great  delight,  he  found  the  bag,  which 
had  been  kicked  past  the  corner  of  the  building  during  the 
scuffle,  and  so  had  escaped  observation  when  they  were  re- 
tiring from  the  scene  of  the  tight.  And  a  very  heavy  bag 
it  was — this  waterproof  sack  which  Andy  the  Hopper  hav- 
ing removed  his  sou'wester  and  his  big  pilot-jacket,  pro- 
ceeded to  open.  There  were  snipe,  and  teal,  and  golden 
plover,  and  what  not,  and  there  were  three  splendid  plump 
brown  hares.  It  seemed  quite  natural  to  see  this  little  red- 
haired  leprechaun-looking  Andy  on  his  knees  sorting  out 
the  game. 

*'  And  where  did  all  these  come  from,  Andy  ?  " 

*'  Sure,  some  from  the  bog,  and  some  from  the  moun 
tain,"  answered  Andy,  imperturbably. 

"And  who  shot  them?" 

"  Is  it  who  shot  them  ?  Who  would  be  afther  shooting 
them  but  mesilf,  your  honor  ?  " 

"  And  who  gave  you  leave  to  shoot  the  mountain  ?" 

"Lave?"  said  Andy,  looking  up  with  a  quite  honest 
stare  of  the  small  clear  blue  eyes.  "  There  is  no  one  'd  be 
axing  for  lave  to  shoot  a  shnipe  or  a  hare  for  yer  honor. 
Yerra,  who'd  be  axing  for  lave  *'  " 

*'  Oh,  Andy,  Andy !  "  said  Fitzgerald.  '*  What  have  you 
been  after?" 

For  now,  indeed,  as  Andy  with  a  little  hesitation,  drew 
out  a  brace  of  fine-plumaged  pheasants,  and  stroked   their 


SHANDON  BELLS,  173 

feathers  down,  and  smoothed  out  their  long  tails,  even  Andy 
seemed  a  little  bit  self-conscious. 

"  Oh,  Andy  , Andy  what  have  you  been  up  to  ?  " 

"  Thrue  for  you,  sir,"  said  Andy,  looking  very  matter-of 
fact :  "  it  isn't  often  thim  kind  o'  birds  comes  about  the 
mountain " 

"  The  mountain*!  Do  you  mean  to  say  you  shot  these 
])heasants  up  the  mountain  ?  " 

"  It  isn't  often  thim  kind  o'  birds  comes  about  the  moun- 
tain," said  Andy,  vaguely. 

"  You  stole  them  out  of  Lord  Kinsale's  coverts — I  know 
you  did," 

"  Auh  !  To  hear  the  like  o'  that,  now  !  Slitalin  ' !  Was 
I  ever  afther  shtalin'  whin  I  was  out  wid  you,  Masther 
Willie,  on  both  bog  and  mountain,  many's  and  many's  the 
time?     They're  a  foine  brace  o'  birds,  yer  honor." 

There  was  no  denying  that,  at  all  events ;  and  Andy 
avoided  further  discussion  o4"  confession  by  proceeding  to 
carry  the  game  to  the  adjacent  table,  where  he  laid  out  the 
beautifully  plumaged  birds  brace  by  brace,  just  as  he  used 
to  do  on  the  kitchen  dresser  at  Inisheen,  after  Master  Willie 
and  he  had  come  back  from  the  mountain.  And  then  he 
was  invited  to  come  and  sit  by  the  fire  and  light  his  pipe, 
the  while  the  young  master  went  and  got  a  pint  bottle  of 
ale  and  a  tumbler  for  him.  It  was  not  the  first  time  that 
these  two  had  had  a  chat  together. 

It  appeared,  then,  from  Andy's  narrative,  that  a  gentle- 
man of  the  name  of  Tim  Sullivan,  who  had  married  Andy's 
cousin  Bridget,  had  laid  under  some  obligation  the  captain 
of  a  trading  smack  called  the  Molly  Bavon^  who  had  offered 
in  return  to  Mr.  Sullivan  a  free  passage  to  London — or  at 
least  to  Limehouse — whenever  he  chose  to  make  the  trip. 
This  Mr.  Sullivan  seemed  to  be  a  person  of  wide  and  am- 
bitious views,  for  though  he  could  not  avail  himself  of  this 
offer  to  see  the  world — owing  to  his  wife  being  ill,  and  he 
having  to  look  after  the  pigs — he  did  not  wish  to  have  it 
thrown  away  ;  and  so  he  had  come  to  Andy  the  Hopper 
and  put  the  chance  before  him. 

"  He  says  to  me,  '  Andy,  would  ye  like  to  see  London, 
now  ?  '  *  Divil  a  bit,'  says  I ;  'but  it's  Masther  Willie  I'd 
like  to  see.  '  Sure,'  says  he,  '  'tis  the  great  chance  for  ye. 
For  what  can  a  gintleman  do  in  London  without  a  sarvint  ? ' 
says  he.  '  Baithershin,'  says  I ;  '  whose  sarvint  ? '  '  Whose  ?' 
Bays  he  ;  *  who  but  Mr.  Fitzgerald  ? '     '  Begor,'  says  I,  '  but 


174  SHANDON  BELLS. 

'tis  the  divil's  own  cleverness  ye've  got,  Tim  Sullivan  ;  for 
who'd  have  thoj.'ght  of  that,  now  ?'  " 

"  But  you  don't  mean  to  say  you've  come  all  the  way 
from  Inisheen,  Andy,  to  try  your  luck  in  London  as  a  man 
servant  ?  " 

"  Well,  Masther  Willie,"  said  Andy,  scratching  his  red 
hair  with  much  perplexity,  *'not  in  a  gifieral  kind  of  way  , 
but  if  it  was  yoursilf,  sorr " 

Fitzgerald  glanced  round  the  apartment. 

"Does  this  look  as  if  I  needed  a  man-servant  Andy?  " 

Now  there  is  very  little  doubt  that  Andy  the  Hopper 
had  been  possessed  with  the  conviction  that  Master  Willie, 
having  gone  away  to  make  his  fortune,  would  be  living  in 
grand  style  ;  but  his  notions  of  grandeur  were  vague. 
And  in  any  case,  was  this  all  of  the  house  that  belonged  to 
the  young  master?  Fitzgerald  had  gently  to  explain  to 
him  that  these  visions  that  Mr.  Sullivan  had  awakened  were 
not  practical ;  and  he  was  very  much  pleased  to  hear  that 
Andy  could  get  a  free  passage  back  in  about  ten  days'  time, 
and  that  also  one  of  the  hands  on  board  the  smack  had  got 
him  a  lodgment  at  Limehouse.  Nor  was  Andy  so  greatly 
disappointed.  He  had  always  been  accustomed  to  take 
Master  Willie's  advice  as  something  that  there  was  no  con- 
testing ;  and  he  quickly  fell  in  with  the  notion  that,  now  he 
was  here,  the  best  thing  he  could  do  was  to  see  as  much  of 
London  as  he  could,  that  he  might  be  a  great  person  when 
he  got  back  to  Inisheen. 

"  How  you  ever  got  here  I  don't  understand,"  Fitzger- 
ald said. 

"Sure,  thin,  your  honor,  'twas  one  of  the  boys  that  tould 
me  the  river  went  all  the  way  through  the  town,  from  ind 
to  ind,  and  says  he,  '  Kape  to  the  shtrame,  and  ask  the 
people  from  toime  to  toime.'  'Tis  iver  since  the  morning  I've 
been  at  it ;  but  glory  be  to  God,  I  found  ye  at  last,  Masther 
Willie  ;  and  that's  the  best  part  av  the  story  they'll  be  want- 
ing to  hear  about  when  I  get  back  to  Inisheen." 

"  Well,  now,  Andy,  begin  and  tell  me  all  the  news. 
Were  there  many  cock  about  this  winter  ?  Was  my  father 
out  shooting  any  time  ?  " 

Thus  invited,  the  little  impish-looking  red-haired  man, 
sucking  away  at  a  short  clay  pipe  the  while,  began  to  tell 
all  that  had  happened  since  Master  Willie  had  left  Inisheen  ; 
and  very  far  and  wide  did  these  rambling  reminiscences 
extend.     It  is  impossible  to  say  how  interesting  these  were 


SHANDON  BELLS,  17b 

to  Fitzgerald  ;  and  yet  on  one  point,  the  most  interesting 
of  all,  Andy  had  nothing  to  say,  and  he  dared  not  ask. 
What,  indeed,  could  Andy  know  ?  Miss  Roinayne  had  not 
been  back  to  Inisheen  since  she  had  left  it  shortly  after  his 
own  leaving ;  and  Andy's  visits  to  Cork  were  the  rarest 
things  in  his  life — otherwise  it  is  quite  possible  he  might 
there  have  made  himself  familiar  with  the  appearance  of  a 
nigger-minstrel.  How  could  he  know  anything  about 
Kitty?  And  yet  the  charm  of  all  this  news  to  Master 
Willie  was  that  it  spoke  to  him  of  the  neighborhood  where 
he  and  Kitty  had  been  together. 

At  last  this  became  too  tantalizing. 

*'  Andy,"  says  he,  "  do  you  remember  the  young  lady 
that  came  down  to  Inisheen,  and  stayed  in  AVidow  Flanar 
gan'3  house  for  a  time?  " 

"  Faix  I  do,"  said  Andy,  with  a  facetious  grin.  "  Sure 
I  remimber  well  enough  the  poor  gyurl  your  honor,  made 
a  fool  of." 

He  flushed  resentfully.  But  how  could  he  complain  of 
this  familiarity  ?  He  had  brought  it  on  himself  by  his  in- 
judicious  questioning.  And  then,  no  doubt,  Andy  con- 
sidered this  a  little  bit  of  astute  flattery  to  regard  the  young 
master  as  a  gay  Lothario. 

"  She  did  not  break  her  heart  though  ye  did  lave  her, 
Masther  Willie,  and  that's  thrue,"  he  added,  with  another 
pull  at  the  pipe. 

"How  do  you  know?  How  do  you  know  anything 
about  her  ?  "  said  Fitzgerald,  angrily. 

"  'Twas  Corney  Malone,"  continued  Andy,  with  the 
composure  of  indifference — for  he  doubtless  thought  this 
was  but  as  another  of  his  items  of  news — "was  up  at  Cork, 
to  see  his  daughter  Biddy  and  the  two  boys — that's  Path- 
rick  with  the  squint  eye  and  young  Corney — he  was  afther 
seeing  them  away  to  Americay — and  sure,  your  honor,  that's 
the  way  wid  'em  all  now,  and  soon  there'll  be  nobody  left 
in  the  counthry  but  the  gossoons  and  the  ould  women — and 
when  he  came  back  to  Inisheen  he  was  in  the  kitchen  at  the 
Impayrial,  and  says  he,  *  Sure  the  foine  young  lady  that 
Masther  Willie  was  sportin'  about  wid  hasn't  broken  her 
heart  for  his  laving  of  her.'  '  What  d'ye  mane,  Corney  ?  * 
says  I,  for  I  was  in  the  kitchen  too — if  it  was  not  for  a 
shnipe  or  two,  or  a  mallard  mebbe,  how  could  a  poor  man 
earn  his  living,  your  honor  ? — and  says  I,  '  Corney  what 


176  SHANDON  BELLS. 

d'y«3  mane  ?  *     *  Faix,'  says  he,  '  'tis  another  one  now  she's 
sportin'  about  wid — a  young  spark  from  Dublin.'  " 

For  a  moment  to  Fitzgerald  the  world  seemed  to  whirl 
round  ;  a  kind  of  blackness  came  before  his  eyes  ;  life  was 
slipping  away  from  him,  But  the  next  instant  there  was  a 
backward  rush — of  contempt  and  indignation. 

"  Who  the  devil  told  you  to  bring  your  kitchen  gabble 
here  ?  "  he  said,  in  a  tone  that  made  Andy  drop  his  pipe. 

Then  he  was  deeply  mortified  with  himself.  As  if  it 
was  the  slightest  consequence  what  reports  might  be  going 
about  Kitty  in  Inisheen  or  elsewhere !  And  was  it  not 
shameful  that  he  should  have  allowed  himself  to  be  star- 
tled ?  He  instantly  assumed  a  forcedly  tranquil  air ;  and 
said,  quite  good-naturedly : — 

"Well,  Andy,  I  suppose  there  isn't  much  doing  just 
now  in  Inisheen  :  no  doubt  the  people  about  the  Imperial 
are  glad  to  have  things  to  talk  about,  however  foolish  they 

may  be " 

"  Thrue  for  you,  sorr,"  said  Andy,  contentedly ;  he 
seemed  quite  unaware  of  having  caused  any  quick  pang  of 
dismay. 

"  Mr,  Corney  Malone  has  been  putting  a  lot  of  nonsense 
in  your  head,"  said  Fitzgerald,  presently.  "  I  suppose  he 
is  vexed  because  the  young  lady  did  not  buy  any  ribbons  or 
pocket-handkerchiefs  at  his  shop — things  that  he  buys  in 
Cork  and  sells  to  you  Inisheen  people  at  double  the  price." 
"  The  divil  swape  him  !  "  said  Andy,  with  lieartfelt  sat- 
isfaction ;  it  was  enough  for  liim  that  Master  Willie  had 
declared  against  Corney  Malone. 

He  invited  Andy  to  continue  his  gossip  but  that  was 
less  interesting  now.  He  scarcely  listened.  He  was  think- 
ing of  Kitty's  letters — the  very  breathings  of  her  soul. 
Could  any  one  who  had  read  these  charming,  inconsequent, 
affectionate  prattlings  doubt  the  honesty  of  her  who  had 
written  them  ?  It  was  at  himself  he  was  wondering.  Why 
should  he  have  felt,  for  even  a  second,  this  blackness  of 
death  grip  his  heart  ?  It  was  for  this,  then,  that  she  had 
given  him  the  great  treasure  of  her  love — that,  at  the  first 
idle  tale,  he  should  imagine  it  possible  for  her  to  be  a  com 
mon  flirt  ?  What  Hilton  Clarke  had  said,  then,  was  true  ? 
She  should  not  have  been  left  alone  ?  Perhaps  she  also  had 
the  "  unappeasable  heart  "  ?  Perhaps  he  was  ready  to  be- 
lieve that  the  little  shoots  of  tenderness  had  already  gone 
out  to  cling  to  somebody  else  ?     Thus  it  was  that  while 


SHANDON  BELLS,  177 

Ancly  the  Hopper  was  giving  a  religiously  accurate  account 
of  the  sayings  and  doings  of  everybody  in  Inisheen,  Mas- 
ter Willie — fighting  for  poor  Kitty,  who  was  so  far  away, 
was  proving  to  himself  that  he  had  never  deserved  to  have 
her  love,  or  he  would  not  have  allowed  that  foolish  rumor 
to  have  dealt  hira  such  a  blow. 

Still  he  wished  to  get  out  into  the  open  air. 

"  Andy,"  said  he,  looking  at  his  watch,  "  I  have  an  en- 
gagement now,  but  I  shall  be  back  by  a  quarter  past  seven. 
You  can't  go  away  down  to  Limehouse  to-night;  you 
would  never  get  there.  I  will  see  if  the  landlady  here  can 
get  you  a  bed  for  the  night  somewhere ;  and  you'll  want 
some  supper.     Wait  here  till  I  come  back." 

"  A  word  wid  ye,  your  honor,"  said  Andy,  anxiously. 
"  May  I  make  so  bould  as  to  bolt  the  door  when  your  honor's 
gone  ?  " 

"Oh  yes,  certainly.  But  there  is  no  chance  of  the 
black  orentleman  cominj^  back." 

It  was  still  raining,  out  here  in  the  dark  night,  and  he 
put  up  his  umbrella  unconsciously;  but  there  were  not 
many  objects  he  passed  during  his  rapid  walk  up  to  Hyde 
Park  Gardens  that  he  noticed  or  could  have  remembered. 
His  thoughts  were  far  away.  Why  should  poor  Kitty 
have  been  made  the  subject  of  idle  rumors  like  these? 
What  could  Corney  Malone  know  of  her  ?  Corney  Malone 
was  a  small  shopkeeper  in  Inisheen  ;  apparently  he  had 
been  unable  to  keep  his  family  or  to  procure  work  for  them 
in  the  old  country ;  so  he  had  been  drafting  them  off  to 
America.  And  it  was  likely  that,  during  that  short  visit 
to  Cork,  he  should  get  to  know  anything  of  Miss  Romayne ! 
Even  if  he  saw  her  walking  with  any  one — which  was  ab- 
surd— how  could  he  tell  that  the  person  was  from  Dublin  ? 
What  would  Kitty  say  when  he  should  tell  her — as  he  cer- 
tainly should — that  this  bit  of  tittle-tattle,  coming  unex- 
pectedly, had  very  nearly  parted  soul  and  body  ?  He  re- 
called that  sensation  with  a  sort  of  shudder.  It  seemed  as 
if  the  world  'were  falling  away  from  around  him,  and  that 
he  was  blind  ;  and  all  because  Corney  Malone,  in  the  b£.ck 
kitchen  of  the  Imperial,  had  been  chattering  spiteful  non- 
sense to  the  idlers  about.  Perhaps  it  was  well  for  the 
symmetry  of  Mr.  Malone's  features — which  was  not  much 
to  boast  of  at  the  best — that  he  was  not  anywhere  about 
Fitzgerald's  neighborhood  just  at  this  present  moment. 

He  reached  Hyde  Park  Gardens,  and  set  to  work  to 


178  SHANDON  BELLS. 

get  through  the  hour  mechanically.  Fortunately  that  was 
easy ;  for  he  had  brought  with  him  a  newly  published 
volume  of  Arctic  travel,  which  was  exceedingly  interesting, 
und  was  making  much  stir ;  and  he  had  had  time  to  mark 
the  salient  passages.  How  strange  it  was  to  read  of  that 
far  white  land  ;  and  to  see  behind  it  all  the  time  the  harbor 
and  the  hills  of  Inisheen  !  It  was  Inisheen  he  was  thinking 
of,  not  Cork.  He  did  not  like  to  think  of  the  streets  of 
Cork.  And  then,  all  of  a  sudden,  there  sprang  into  his  rec' 
ollection  a  phrase  in  one  of  Kitty's  letters,  written  long 
ago  when  she  was  in  Dublin — "  Willie,  there's  a  man  bother- 
ing me  with  bouquets."  His  face  grew  red.  He  stumbled 
on  with  his  reading.  But  the  redness  of  his  face  was 
caused  by  anger  with  himself  that  this  recollection  could 
annoy  him.  Pie  had  no  time  to  argue  the  matter  with  him- 
self ;  he  was  reading  about  the  Arctic  zone.  Sometimes 
Mrs.  Chetwynd  said,  "  Poor  fellows,  how  they  must  have 
enjoyed  that  Christmas  feast !  '*  or,  "  Dear  me,  that  was  a 
narrow  escape !  "  and  he  had  to  read  on  and  on,  with  the 
streets  of  Cork,  instead  of  Inisheen,  thrusting  themselves 
in  as  a  background  to  all  his  hurried,  staccato,  agonized 
thinking. 

So  glad  he  was  when  that  hour  of  unimaginable  torture 
was  over,  and  he  could  rush  out  into  the  night  to  wrestle 
with  the  demons  that  were  seeking  to  devour  him.  He 
would  not  face  them,  for  he  would  not  acknowledge  their 
existence.  He  would  not  admit  to  himself  that  he  could 
have  any  doubts  of  Kitty's  love,  her  faith,  and  honor.  He 
hurried  on  his  way,  persuading  himself  that  he  was  soiry 
fo»-  Andy's  waiting  there  alone.  It  was  kind  of  Dr.  Bude 
to  have  interested  himself  in  John  Ross,  and  to  have  got 
eome  friend  to  offer  to  take  two  more  sketches.  Ross  must 
see  Andy  the  Hopper,  and  make  a  drawing  of  him.  Ross 
might  make  a  little  copy  of  it,  and  he  would  send  that  to 
Kitty  to  amuse  her — to  Kitty  who  was  so  lonely  away  up 
there  on '  the  hill.  "  Just  tell  them  there's  a  poor  girl 
in  Ireland  who  is  breaking  her  heart  for  your  sake  " — 
thau  was  what  she  had  written.  As  for  any  one  send- 
ing her  bouquets,  why  not  ?  What  more  natural  ?  The^ 
threw  them  to  her  on  the  concert  stage ;  why  not  send 
them  ?  She  had  not  even  seen  the  man.  How  could 
they  know  that  Kitty  was  married  already ;  that  her 
vow  had  been  registered  in  the  unseen  world  ;  that  her 
faithfulness  had  been  celebrated  in  the  great   hall  where 


ShAND ON  BELLS.  \ 79 

the  little  people  sounded  their  silver  gongs,  and  the 
car 3  of  "Catherine"  was  given  over  to  them?  He  knew 
and  she  knew ;  that  was  enough  ;  the  outside  woi-ld  might 
go  its  way.  "  Let  ^his  be  a  love  night,"  Kitty  had  said, 
down  by  the  running  water.  She  could  scarcely  be  got  to 
repeat  the  curse ;  she  knew  there  never  would  be  any  occa- 
sion for  that.  And  to  speak  of  j^oor  Kitty  as  having  been 
jilted!  Well,  no  matter.  He  and  she  knew;  the  little 
ringlets  round  her  ears  had  heard  their  secrets,  the  outside 
world  might  go  its  way. 

.  t'rom  these  dreams,  that  seemed  to  grow  brighter  and 
brighter  the  faster  he  walked,  he  was  awakened  by  his  ar- 
rival at  his  lodging,  and  the  necessity  of  supplying  Andy 
with  some  supper  and  a  bed  in  the  neighborhood.  There 
was  no  difficulty  about  either.  At  supper  (John  Koss  could 
not  be  found,  or  he  would  have  bee*n  invited  to  join)  Andy 
insisted  on  observing  the  etiquette  of  the  luncheons  on  the 
mountain.  That  is  to  say,  he  would  wait  about  until  the 
young  master  had  finished — helping  now  and  again  to  hand 
things  as  well  as  he  knew.  Then,  when  he  had  followed, 
and  disposed  of  a  hasty  meal,  he  had  no  objection  to  light 
a  pipe  and  chat  on  ordinary  familiar  terms. 

But  all  the  fascination  had  gone  from  Andy  the  Hop- 
per's gossip.  He  found  the  young  master  sorely  dis- 
traught ;  more  than  that,  he*  seemed  to  become  impatient 
from  time  to  time,  as  though  he  could  not  bear  having  his 
thoughts  disturbed. 

"  Sure,  Masther  Willie,"  said  Andy  at  length,  "  there 
was  nothing  to  vex  ye  in  the  shtory  that  Corney  Malone 
brought  back  from  Cork — bad  luck  to  the  omadhaun  ! — " 

"  Oh,  hold  your  tongue,  Andy  ?  "  said  Fitzgerald,  rising 
and  going  to  the  window.  "  It  is  still  raining.  See  here 
now.  Will  you  be  able  to  make  your  way  back  to  Lime- 
house  to-morrow  ?  " 

"  Yerra,  your  honor,  as  I  came  here,  I  can  go  back." 

"  If  there's  any  sun,  you  can  make   straight  south   till 
ou  meet  the  river.      If  there  isn't,  ask  the  nearest  way. 
hen  you'll  find  yourself  near  Chelsea  pier ;  and  the  boat 
will  take  you  down.     Can  you  remember  that,  now?  " 

"  Snire  well  shpake  of  it  in  the  marnm,  your  honor," 
said  Andy,  who  was  very  comfortable  now  by  the  fire. 

"  I  shan't  see  you  in  the  morning,"  said  Fitzgerald, 
briefly.  "  I  am  going  away  from  London  for  a  day  or 
two " 


T 

T 


180  SHANDON  BELLS, 

"  The  Lord  be  marciful  to  us,  Masther  Willie  ;  but  is  ill 
bad  news  ye've  got  ?  " 

"  No,  no.  I  am  coming  back  in  a  day  or  two — long 
before  the  Molly  Bawn  can  get  in  her  cargo.  I'll  find  you 
out  at  Limehouse,  and  bring  you  back  here.  I'll  have  your 
portrait  painted,  Andy.  But  where's  the  jacket  with  the 
red  sleeves?" 

"  Sure  I  thought  if  your  honor  wanted  a  sarvint,  'twasn't 
the  ould  jacket  you'd  be  afther  wishing  to  have  about  the 
liouse.  But  that  was  the  jacket  that  tased  the  bull  into  the 
bog — d'ye  mind  that,  Masther  Willie  ?  " 

"  Don't  I !  " 

This  resolution  of  liis  once  taken — that,  come  what 
might,  he  would  start  by  the  Irish  mail  in  tlio  morning,  and 
take  the  long  journey  to  Cork,  and  seek  out  Kitty,  just  for 
a  moment  of  holding  her  two  shoulders  and  gazing  into  tlie 
beautiful,  soft  eyes — Andy's  gossip  seemed  far  more  bear- 
able. What  was  not  bearable  was  that,  amid  all  the  vague 
thoughts  conjured  up  by  this  aimless  talking,  now  and 
again  his  heart  should  stop  short  suddenly,  as  if  tliere  was 
something  he  dared  not  face.  He  could  not  banisli  from 
him  the  consciousness  that,  however  he  might  argue  him- 
self out  of  foolish  doubt  in  the  daytime,  in  the  night  dark 
things  would  occupy  his  mind.  And  Kitty's  eyes  were 
80  loving  they  would  have  no  reproach  in  them,  if  he  went 
to  her  and  asked  her  to  help  him  to  banish  forever  this 
ghastly  nightmare.  Just  to  take  her  hand  for  a  moment — 
that  would  be  enough.  Was  it  not  the  hand  he  had  held 
over  the  little  stream  running  down  to  the  Blackwater  and 
the  sea  ? 


CHAPTER  XVIII. 

STORM  AND  CALM. 


This  was  a  strange  setting  out  to  go  and  see  Kitty. 
Where  was  the  gladness  of  it  ?  Why  should  there  be  fear, 
and  a  touch  of  shame,  and  a"  hundred  horrible  distractions 
and  suggestions,  instead  of  the  simple  joyousness  of  the 
thought  that  soon  he  would  have  Kitty's  lovelit  eyes  r^- 


SIIANDON  BELLS.  181 

garding  him  ?  He  had  not  slept  much  that  niglit.  Long 
before  th^re  was  any  need  he  had  dressed  and  gone  out, 
making  his  way  to  the  station  through  the  dark  emptj 
streets.  In  the  cold  railway  carriage  he  sat  distraught ; 
the  spectacle  of  the  'gray  dawn  disclosing  itself  over  the 
sleeping  landscape  had  no  interest  for  hfm.  He  was  as  one 
in  a  dream. 

And  then  sometimes  he  would  ask  himself  sharp  and 
angry  questions.  Supposing  this  rumor  to  be  true,  had  he 
not  himself  to  blame  ?  Why  had  he  ever  left  Cork  ?  What 
had  the  wretched  ambition  to  play  a  part  in  literature  to 
do  with  the  happiness  of  his  life  ?  Why  had  he  been  con- 
tent to  live  in  a  fool's  paradise  in  London,  when  he  ought 
to  have  been  by  Kitty's  side  ?  Was  it  not  liis  place  ?  But 
he  must  needs  go  and  leave  her  alone — she  young  and  ten- 
der-eyed, and  wandering  from  one  town  to  another.  How 
could  that  fool  of  a  woman  be  a  proper  guardian  for  her  ? 
And  what  more  natural  that  here  or  there  some  one  should 
wish  to  pay  Kitty  some  attention,  she  was  so  quick  in  sym- 
pathy, so  gentle-hearted,  with  her  "  young  eyes  still  wound- 
ing where  they  looked  "  ? 

And  then  again  he  reproached  himself  for  entertaining  for 
a  moment  tlie  monstrous  supposition  that  his  faithful  Kitty, 
who  had  sworn  her  love  to  him  over  the  brook  on  that  won- 
derful moonlit  night,  should  encourage  the  attentions  of 
any  one.  And  how  was  he  going  to  reproach  her  ?  How 
make  an  excuse  for  appearing  in  Audley  Place  ?  Should 
he  play  the  spy,  then  ?  This  was  a  strange  setting  out  to 
go  and  see  Kitty. 

But  when  he  got  near  to  Holyhead  the  first  glimpse  of 
the  sea  made  his  heart  leap  up.  Had  not  these  gloomy 
fancies  and  forbodings  been  the  product  of  a  town  life? 
The  cold  sea  air  seemed  to  drive  them  away.  Of  course 
he  should  meet  Kitty  as  of  old  ;  and  they  would  talk  about 
Inisheen ;  and  if  the  winter  roads  were  rather  too  muddy 
for  country  walks,  they  would  be  quite  content  with  the 
wide  pavements  of  the  town,  and  would  be  happy  enough 
in  the  South  Mall,  or  in  St.  Patrick  Street,  or  the  Mandyke 
Parade.  Kitty's  warm  little  hand  would  be  on  his  arm. 
They  would  talk  about  their  future  life  together.  Would 
she  look  up  trustingly,  or  look  down  shyly,  when  he  told 
her  of  the  quaint  little  house  by  the  river  with  its  wood- 
work of  white  and  green  ? 

He  grew  so  hopeful  that  he  had  even  time  to  think  of 


182  SHANDON  BELLS, 

John  Ross,  and  to  wish  that  he  also  were  on  board  thig 
great  steamer.  Would  not  these  wonders  be  sufficient  for 
hira  ?  For  at  one  moment  they  were  slowly  steaming 
through  a  fog  that  was  suffused  with  a  yellow  sunlight, 
the  foghorn  booming  and  answering  similar  warnings  from 
ships  that  were  invisible — and  then  again  they  would 
emerge  suddenly  into  perfectly  clear  space,  the  sea  quite 
smooth  and  glassy  and  blue,  perhaps  some  massive  brig  or 
heavy  schooner  lying  motionless  on  the  mirror-like  surface 
with  all  its  idle  sails  accurately  reflected.  It  was  a  tedious 
crossing  on  the  whole.  Sometimes  they  stole  out  from  one 
of  these  encircling  fogs  to  find  another  steamer,  or  motion- 
less sailing  vessel,  most  dangerously  near.  But  before  they 
reached  Kingstown  they  had  left  the  fogs  completely  be- 
hind them,  and  the  sun  was  shining  pleasantly  on  the  har- 
bor and  shipping  and  houses,  as  if  his  native  country  were 
giving  him  a  friendly  and  smiling  welcome. 

Ill  the  long  journey,  moreover,  away  to  the  south  he 
had  distraction  in  the  society  of  a  middle-aged  priest,  a 
person  of  meagre  aspect  and  of  sallow  complexion,  who 
had  gray  eyes  with  black  eyebrows  and  eyelashes.  Fitz- 
gerald very  soon  found  that  tliese  gray  eyes  were  capable 
of  expressing  a  good  deal  of  passionate  feeling — especially 
anger.  The  priest  was  a  perfervid  politician,  and  his  lan- 
guage was  far  from  temperate.  Now  Fitzgerald  was 
scarcely  a  politician  at  all.  The  Cork  Chronicle  had  not 
seen  fit  to  take  the  affairs  of  the  Empire  under  its  care. 
At  Inisheen,  again,  he  had  generally  preferred  to  the  Tim 
or  Pat  who  skulked  out  of  the  town  for  midnight  drill 
(frightening  the  wild  fowl  besides)  the  Tim  or  Pat  who 
worked  contentedly  at  his  little  farm,  and  had  a  pleasant 
*'  good-morrow  "  for  the  passer-by,  and  knew  whereabouts 
a  hare  was  to  be  found.  He  had  his  doubts  about  the  won- 
derful magic  to  be  wrought  by  "  Repeal,"  and  had  a  vague 
sort  ©f  belief  that,  even  under  the  present  system,  an  Irish- 
man, if  he  condescended  to  work,  had  just  as  good  a  chance 
of  getting  on  as  a  Scotchman  or  an  Englishman.  It  will 
be  seen  that  these  were  not  very  definite  convictions ;  and 
this  good  father  got  himself  into  white  heat  in  showing 
Fitzgerald  how  shameful  it  was  of  an  Irishman  to  be  so  in- 
different. Fitzgerald  took  no  shame  to  himself.  Politics 
had  not  been  much  in  his  way.  A  young  man  who  has  to 
earn  his  own  living  must  think  of  that  first  before  proceed- 
ing to  look  after  the  affairs  of  the  country  (unless,  indeed, 


SHANDON  BELLS.  183 

he  is  the  younger  son  of  a  nobleman,  when  he  may  have 
an  opportunity  of  accomplishing  the  former  at  the  expense 
of  the  latter),  and  though  Fitzgerald  was  quite  willing  to 
listen  to  this  impassioned  clerical — and  rather  glad,  perhaps 
to  have  the  tedium  of  the  long  railway  journey  so  relieved 
— it  was  not  to  be  expected  that  he  should  suddenly  acquire 
an  intense  interest  in  party  strife.  Indeed,  it  may  ailord 
an  illustration  of  certain  influences  that  had  been  at  work 
on  him  to  say  that  while  the  priest  was  denouncing  the  ac- 
tion of  the  government  as  having  been  the  direct  and 
obvious  cause  of  Irish  disaffection,  Fitzgerald,  regarding 
the  gray  eyes,  was  wondering  whether  any  color  or  any  ar- 
tistic skill  could  convey  to  canvas  the  curious  light  that 
glowed  there. 

But  as  they  drew  nearer  and  nearer  to  Cork — it  was 
now  the  middle  of  the  night — neither  political  discussion 
nor  artistic  contemplation  was  sufficient  to  distract  his 
mind.  He  scarcely  heard  what  the  good  man  said.  He 
assented  to  anything.  He  was  thinking  of  his  meeting 
with  Kitty  in  the  morning,  and  his  heart  was  heavy  with 
fear — fear  of  he  scarcely  knew  what.  It  was  so  strange 
that  he  should  be  afraid  of  meeting  Kitty !  Would  she 
believe  that  ?  Would  she  see  it  ?  What  explanation  could 
he  make? 

Then  he  thought  of  her  recent  letters.  It  is  true  that, 
once  or  twice,  she  had  seemed  to  grow  despondent,  and 
perhaps  even  a  little  bit  tired  of  waiting ;  but  for  the  most 
part  she  had  written  as  cheerfully  and  kindly  as  ever. 
What  reason,  then,  could  he  give  for  this  sudden  visit  ? 
Could  he  confess  to  her  that  he  had  formed  suspicions  of  her, 
and  that  on  the  authority  of  a  rumor  brought  by  such  a  mes- 
senger as  Andy  the  Hopper? 

"  You  don't  believe  my  letters,  then  !  "  would  she  not 
say?  "  You  consider  I  have  been  playing  the  hypocrite? 
My  affection  for  you  was  a  pretence.  You  can  not  trust 
what  I  say  ;  you  have  to  come  over  and  see  for  yourself  ; 
it  is  thus  you  recognize  the  sacredness  of  tlie  vow  that  we 
swore  in  the  glen  ?  That  is  the  importance  you  yourself 
attacn  to  it;  that  it  is  so  slight  a  tie  it  can  have  melted 
away  already ;  you  come  over  to  see  who  it  is  that  has  so 
soon  come  between  us  two! " 

How  could  he  withstand  the  reproachful  look  of  Kitty^s 
eyes  ?  How  could  he  show  to  her  how  weak  had  been  his 
faith  in  her  ?    If  it  were  so  easily  snapped  on  so  slight  a 


184  SHANDON  BELLS. 

strain,  liow  could  it  withstand  the  rougher  usage,  the  long 
wear  and  tear  of  the  world  ? 

But  then  Kitty  was  so  honest  and  so  kind.  If  he  were 
quite  frank  with  her,  and  told  her  that  his  better  reason 
knew  how  groundless  those  fears  were,  and  that  only  to 
show  himself  how  absurd  they  were  had  he  taken  this  long 
journey ;  if  he  were  to  throw  himself  on  her  mercy  ;  if  he 
were  to  say,  "  Kitty,  laugh  at  me  as  you  like,  but  lonely 
living  in  London  has  weakened  my  nerves,  and  I  can't  hear 
anything  about  you  but  my  heart  jumps,  so  here  I  am,  just 
to  have  a  look  at  you,  and  to  laugh  at  myself,  if  you  like, 
for  my  idle  fright  " — would  Kitty  laugh?  Not  she.  She 
was  too  kind  for  that.  Her  warm  and  gentle  heart  had  no 
malice  in  it  at  all.  She  would  say  :  "  Then  look  at  me, 
Look  down  into  my  eyes.  Can  you  find  anything  but  love, 
and  truth,  and  constancy  ?  " 

On  arriving  at  Cork  he  went  to  the  Imperial  Hotel ;  it 
was  between  two  and  three  in  the  morning.  He  was  very 
tired,  and  he  slept  well.  On  awakening,  he  could  not  un- 
derstand where  he  was — for  a  second  ;  the  next  second 
his  heart  almost  stood  still :  he  had  to  face  Kitty. 

Then,  if  so,  the  sooner  the  better.  When  he  went  out 
into  the  wide  thoroughfares  on  this  quiet  Sunday  morning, 
they  were  shining  just  as  cheerfully  in  the  sunlight  as  on 
that  former  Sunday  morning  when  his  life  seemed  to  be 
rejoicing  within  him  at  the  thought  of  his  climbing  the 
steep  little  thoroughfare  at  the  top  of  which  Kitty  lodged. 
Now  he  kept  his  eyes  about  him,  as  if  people  might  be 
watching  him.  Would  they  know  what  had  brought  him 
to  Cork  ?     There  might  be  a  friend  of  Kitty's  somewhere 

about,  who  would  wonder  to  see  him.     Perhaps But  no  ; 

he  could  not  consider  that  possible. 

And  yet  it  was  wonderful  to  him  that  perhaps  so  late 
as  even  yesterday  Kitty  had  been  looking  at  these  very 
quays  and  boats,  and  had  crossed  this  bridge,  and  had  been 
opposite  yonder  house.  That  was  the  interest  of  the  scene 
to  him.  John  Ross's  teaching  was  forgotten  ;  he  was  not 
thinking  of  the  color  of  tlie  sea,  or  of  the  gi-eens  and  grays 
and  whites  of  this  steep  little  thoroughfare.  He  had 
scarcely  a  look  for  Shandon  tower  when  he  had  climbed 
the  hill ;  he  did  not  notice  the  hoar-frost  on  the  ground 
where  the  sun  had  not  reached  it,  nor  the  extent  of  wintry 
landscape,  with  its  leafless  trees  and  hedges.  He  only 
knew  that  not  a  soul  was  visible  along  the  little  terrace, 


SHANDON  B ELI'S,  185 

and  that  he  dared  not  go  near  the  house.     He  must  see 
Kitty  alone,  and  here. 

He  waited  and  waited,  walking  this  way  and  that,  but 
not  passing  the  house.  The  clock  in  Shandon  tower  over 
there  struck  half  past  ten  ;  but  still  she  did  not  come. 
"Why  should  she  ?  No  country  walks  were  possible  now ; 
no  doubt  the  wet  weather  had  left  the  lanes  full  of  raud. 
And  if  she  were  not  to  stir  forth  at  all — bright  as  tlie 
morning  happened  to  be  ? 

Then  the  whole  aspect  of  the  world  changed ;  Kitty 
was  there.  The  day  seemed  fuller  and  richer ;  delight 
took  possession  of  him  ;  he  lost  fear.  Kitty  did  not  see 
him  at  first ;  she  looked  abroad  over  the  country  as  she 
came  down  to  the  little  iron  gate  ;  and  as  she  came  along 
he  noticed  that  she  carried  a  prayer-book  in  her  hand. 

'^  Kitty  ! " 

She  looked  up — with  something  of  fear,  as  he  thought, 
in  her  startled  glance. 

He  seized  her  hands  and  kissed  her. 

"  You  are  not  glad  to  see  me,  then  ?  "  he  said,  cheer- 
fully. 

"  Well,  but  —  but  —  "  she  said.  ''  But  nothing  has 
haj^pened  ?  " 

"  Nothing,"  said  he.  "  I  have  come  to  see  vou,  that 
is  all.-' 

"  You  have  given  me  a  great  fright,"  said  she,  and  she 
was  still  a  little  pale.  "Why  did  you  not  write  to  me?  " 
W^hat  is  the  meaning  of  it  ?  " 

He  was  so  delighted  with  regai-ding  her — the  pretty 
outline  of  her  cheek  and  chin,  the  soft,  timid  blackness  of 
her  eyes,  the  bits  of  curls  that  were  around  her  small  ears 
— that  he  scarcely  heard  what  she  said. 

"  You  have  not  altered  a  bit,  Kitty,"  said  he  in  his 
gladness  "  You  are  just  as  much  my  Kitty  as  ever — and 
ever  so  much  nicer  to  look  at  than  your  portrait.  It  hasn't 
been  satisfactory,  Kitty,  trying  to  get  that  portrait  to  speak 
to  me  jifcian  evening  when  I  was  quite  alone.  It  looked  at 
me,  JSJire  not  as  you  look  now.  But  still — why  do  you 
look  so — so — so —    Kitty,  are  you  not  glad  to  see  me  ?  " 

"  Well,  of  course,"  said  she,  but  not   with  the  greatest 
cordiality.      "You  need  not  have  frightened  me.     It  is  a 
Jack-in-the-box  kind  of  way  of  coming  to  see  one.     Why 
dkj  you  not  write?  " 
'^^*  Well,  the  surprise "  He  could  not  tell  her  the  trutl) 


186  SHAND ON  BELLS. 

nay,  there  was  happily  no  need  for  him  to  tell  her.  He 
had  looked  in  her  eyes ;  that  was  enough. 

"  And  the  cost,  too,  I  suppose,"  said  she.  "Do  you 
think  it  is  very  wise,  Willie  to  throw  away  money  like 
that  ?  I  did  not  understand  you  were  getting  on  so  very 
well." 

He  stared  at  her  in  astonishment ;  not  hurt  or  vexed, 
but  simply  wondering. 

"  Kitty,  you  talk  as  if  you  really  were  not  glad  that  I 
have  come  to  see  you.  You  don't  talk  like  my  Kitty 
at  all." 

'*  Of  course  I  am  glad,"  she  said.  "But  people  can't 
always  have  what  they  like.  I  really  don't  see  that  it  is 
wise  to  go  throwing  away  money  on  these  constant  trips — • 
especially  in  the  case  of  people  whose  future  doesn't  look 
over  bright." 

"  Constant  trips,  Kitty !  This  is  the  second  since  I 
went  to  London  ;  and  the  first  was  eight  or  nine  months 
ago " 

"  But  what  is  the  use  of  it  ?  " 

"  There  is  no  use  in  it — there  is  no  use  in  it,  Kitty," 
said  he,  rather  bewildered.  "  And  if  I  thought  that  this 
was  to  be  my  reception " 

"  Oh,  but  we  are  not  going  to  quarrel,"  said  she,  with 
something  more  of  her  ordmary  kindness  in  her  manner. 
"  If  you  have  been  extravagant,  we  must  make  the  best  of 
it.     I  am  going  to  church ;  I  suppose  you  will  come  with 


me 


9" 


She  put  her  hand  in  his  arm,  in  the  old  familiar  way; 
he  could  not  but  take  it  and  pat  it. 

"  I  will  go  to  church  with  you  if  you  like,  Kitty ;  but 
might  we  not  have  a  walk  and  a  chat  instead!  There 
must  be  a  lot  to  say  after  such  a  long  separation.' 

"  We  can  not  walk  about,"  she  said ;  "the  roads  are  too 
wet.  Besides,  I  told  Miss  Patience  I  was  going  to  church. 
And  besides,"  she  added,  with  a  little  laugh,  "  we  have  not 
been  quite  idle  in  letter-writing,  Willie :  there  caa  not  be 
so  very  much  to  say." 

"  Oh,  very  well,  Kitty.  I  will  go  to  church  with  you ; 
I  don't  care  much  where  we  go,  so  long  as  I  am  by  your 
side.  And  when  you  have  been  to  church,  Kitty,  you  will 
be  a  little  more  gentle  and  civil  in  your  manner." 

"  But  I  am  gentleness  and  civility  itself,"  she  remon- 
strated.    "  It  is  you  who  are  reckless  and  wild.     You  don't 


SHANDON  BELLS.  \  87 

care  what  any  freak  costs  you.  I  believe  I  was  mad  when 
I  engaged  myself  to  yon." 

'*  No  use  saying  that  now,  Kitty,  it  is  past  praying  for.** 

"  I  suppose  so." 

They  were  on  much  more  friendly  terms  now.  Perhaps 
Kitty  had  only  resented  herhavingbeen  frightened.  It  was 
quite  like  old  times  for  them  to  be  walking  arm  in  arm ; 
and  the  bell  in  Shandon  tower  w^as  tolling,  and  the  people 
were  coming  along  the  various  thoroughfares  to  the  church. 

"  By  thp  way,"  said  he,  "  we  have  never  settled  in  what 
church  we  shall  be  married  Kitty." 

"  That's  beingrather  too  particular.  That's  looking 
rather  too  far  forward,  isn't  it  ?  " 

"  I  am  not  so  sure  about  that,"  said  he. 

"  You  have  discovered  the  gold  mine,  then  ?  Is  that 
what  you  came  to  tell  me  about,  Willie  ? "  she  said,  with 
an  odd  kind  of  smile. 

But  they  were  entering  the  church  porch,  and  there  was 
no  possibility  for  further  speech.  Sitting  there  beside  her, 
indeed,  he  did  not  complain  of  the  enforced  silence.  To  be 
near  her  was  enough ;  to  have  tight  hold  of  her  hand  ;  to 
hear  the  sweet  voice  join  in  the  singing.  Perhaps  he  did 
not  listen  too  attentively  to  the  service  or  the  sermon. 
Dreams  of  whrat  the  world  might  hold  for  him  and  her  to- 
gether would  come  in  from  time  to  time.  The  imaginations 
and  ambitions  of  youth  are  stimulated  rather  than  retarded 
by  the  hushed  and  mysterious  repose  of  a  sacred  building; 
the  vague  dim  background  is  convenient  for  the  painting 
of  wonderful  pictures.  And  it  seemed  to  him  that  that 
beautiful  future,  which  he  could  adorn  and  color  at  will, 
had  once  more  and  suddenly  been  presented  to  him.  These 
horrible  doubts  had  been  left  behind.  They  vanished  Avhen 
he  took  Kitty's  hand  m  his.  There  was  no  need  for  explan- 
ation or  confession;  Kitty  and  he  were  together  again; 
life  had  grown  full  again  of  joy  and  hope.  And  London, 
Avith  its  struggles  and  mortifications  and  disappointments, 
was  also  forgotten.  Shandon  church,  with  Kitty's  hand  in 
his,  left  him  no  memories  of  the  Fulham  Road.  It  was  as 
if  it  had  only  been  the  other  night  that  he  and  she  pledgc^l 
their  vows  to  each  other  over  the  running  stream. 

When  they  came  out  again  she  said  : — 

"Now  you  will  come  and  have  some  dinner  witli  n;^ 
Willie ;  and  you  must  try  and  be  civil  to   Miss  Patience." 


188      ■  sir  AND  ON  BELLS, 

"  1  would  rather  go  for  a  walk,  Kitty,"  said  he  "  We 
have  said  nothing  to  each  other  yet." 

*'  What  is  there  to  say  that  we  have  not  said  before  ?  " 
she  answered,  somewhat  saucily,  "  or  that  we  can't  say  in 
letters?" 

"  Your  letters  are  very  nice,  Kitty,  but  they  don't  sp«ak 
as  well  as  your  eyes." 

'*  Oh,  1  assure  you,"  she  said  gravely,  "  I  am  going  to 
take  my  eyes  with  me  wherever  I  go.  Don't  be  afraid.  1 
shall  have  my  eyes  as  much  with  me  when  we  are  sitting 
down  at  the  table  as  if  we  were  wandering  through  these 
muddy  lanes." 

No,  she  would  not  be  persuaded.  She  thought  there 
would  not  even  be  time  for  a  stroll  down  to  the  river-side 
and  ba<5k.  It  was  too  cold  for  walking.  She  was  rather 
tired. 

"  Tired  !  "  said  he,  in  amazement ;  "  What  can  have  tired 
you?" 

"  You  are  so  pertinacious !  "  she  said,  with  a  touch  of 
impatience.  "You  want  to  argue.  You  want  explanations. 
When  I  tell  you  I  am  tired,  isn't  that  enough  !  " 

"  Well,  yes,  it  is  enough,"  said  he,  gently.  "  And  I 
think  you  must  be  tired." 

The  subtlety  of  this  reproof  reached  her.  She  colored 
a  little. 

"  I  want  to  be  kind  to  you,  but  you're  always  quarrel- 
ling ! "  she  said. 

And  then  she  laughed,  and  looked  so  pretty  and  con- 
fused and  merry  all  at  once  that  he  could  have  kissed  her 
there  and  then,  though   all  Cork  might  stare. 

''  I  declare  it's  enough  to  put  anybody  out  of  temper," 
sai  i  she,  with  all  h-er  ordinary  frankness  and  audacity. 
"  Here  am  I  supposed  to  be  cultivating  the  greatest  admira- 
tion for  somebody  who  is  away  in  London,  working  hard 
on  my  account.  It  is  so  self-denying,  don't  you  see ;  and 
you  ought  to  remember  the  absent ;  and  all  the  rest  of  it. 
And  all  at  once  he  turns  up  on  a  holiday  trip — frightening 
you,  to  begin  with  ;  and  not  a    word  of  excuse  or  reason." 

"  I  have  quite  sufficient  reason,  Kitty,"  said  he.  "  The 
delight  of  listening  to  your  impertinence  is  quite  enough." 

"I  am  not  impertinent  at  all;  lam  talking  common- 
sense — and  that's  a  thing  you  don't  know  much  about, 
Master  Willie.     The  fact  is,  these  people  at  Inisheen  spoiled 


S  HAND  ON  BELLS,  1S9 

you.     You  tliink   you   should  have   everything  you  want. 
Now  that  isn't  quite  possible  in  this  fine  world." 

"  Kitty,  you  have  been  studying  the  Poor  Mail's  An- 
nual^ or  whatever  the  book  is.  You  are  fearfully  wise  this 
morning.  This  is  the  second  time  you  have  informed  me 
that  people  can't  get  everytliing  they  want;  and  the  truth 
of  the  aphorism  is  more  remarkable  than  its  noveily " 

"  Oh,  dear  me,  is  that  the  way  we  talk  in  London  ?  " 
said  she. 

"  There's  only  one  thing  I  want,"  said  he,  not  heeding 
lier  ;  "  and  I've  got  it,  hard  and  fast." 

"  But  you  need  not  break  my  fingers  with  your  arm. 
I  sha'n't  be  able  to  practise  to-morrow.  What  is  that  in 
your  breast  pocket  that  hurts  so  ?  " 

''  That?  "  said  he.  "  It  would  be  odd  if  that  could  hurt 
anvbody.  It's  your  portrait,  Kitty.  I  had  a  case  made 
for  it." 

"  Let  me  see  it." 

He  took  out  the  case  and  showed  it  her.  She  only 
looked  at  the  outside. 

"  Well,  I  do  declare  !  The  extravagance  !  And  this  is 
the  way  we  are  supposed  to  be  saving  money  in  London — 
buying  anything  that  touches  our  fancy,  or  rattling  away 
on  a  holiday?  That  is  just  like  you  Irish  people.  I  see 
more  and  more  of  it  everyday.  You  can  deny  yourselves 
nothing.  You  must  always  spend  more  than  you've  got, 
and  then  expect  the  government  to  keep  you •' 

*'  Who  has  been  giving  you  lessons  in  political  economy, 
Kitty?"  he  said,  as  he  took  the  case  from  her  and  put  it 
in  another  pocket.  "  You  have  become  fearfully  practi- 
cal  " 

"  That's  what  you  will  never  be,"  she  said,  with  a  little 
srgh — real  or  affected. 

"  I  did  not  think  you  would  consider  that  much  of  an 
extravagance,"  said  he,  "  getting  a  nice  cover  for  your  pho- 
tograph." 

"  But  coming  away  over  here " 

"  That  seems  quite  to  distress  you " 

"  Oh  dear  no,"  she  said — they  were  now  going  up  to  the 
door  of  the  house,  and  she  spoke  in  a  more  matter-of-fact 
way.  "  Perhaps  I  ought  to  be  glad.  It  shows  you  can 
afford  it." 

As  he  entered  the  little  passage  he  caught  a  glimpse  of 
a  female  figure  flying  upstairs ;  then  Kittv  asked  him  to  t?o 


1  m  SHANDON  BELLS. 

into  the  adjacent  parlor  and  wait  till  she  had  put  off  her 
things ;  then  he  was  left  alone. 

This  meeting  with  Kitty  had  not  been  like  that  othei 
meeting  that  he  so  clearly  remembered.  Then  she  had 
clung  to  liim,  crying;  she  had  begged  of  him  never  to  leave 
her  again  ;  she  had  offered  to  live  on  nothing  rather  than 
that  he  should  go  away  from  her.  Now  she  had  grown  sc 
practical ;  she  seemed  to  wish  him  back  in  London  ;  it  wag 
the  cost  of  his  visit,  not  the  surprise  and  delight  of  it,  that 
seemed  to  occupy  her  mind.  But  still,  here  he  was  in  the 
little  chamber  that  was  so  familiar  ;  there  was  Kitty's  piano, 
and  the  dishevelled  mass  of  music  that  she  never  would 
keep  in  order;  there  were  the  books  he  had  sent  her  (lie 
knew  better  than  to  look  whether  the  edges  were  cut ;  dis- 
appointments come  easily  enough  without  people  hunting 
after  them)  ;  there  was  the  crystal  paper-weight  in  which 
Kitty  had  put  his  photograph,  saying  the  while  :  "  Well, 
80  long  as  that  is  before  me  while  I  am  writing,  I  guess  I 
shall  look  sharp  after  my  grammar.  I  can  see  the  scowl 
beginning  already.  '  None  of  your  impertinence^  miss. 
CanH  you  spell  the  English  language  yetf  You  think 
that  is  clever^  do  youf^  So  there's  a  place  for  you,  Mr. 
Schoolmaster  Killjoy;  and  when  I  want  a  scolding  I'll 
come  for  it." 

The  little  maid-servant  came  in  and  laid  the  cloth  ;  and 
then  Miss  Patience  appeared. 

Miss  Patience  received  him  with  much  placid  civility. 
She  seemed  more  mysterious  and  hawk-like  than  ever,  and 
seemed  to  take  it  for  granted  that  he,  having  been  so  much 
longer  in  London,  should  know  proportionately  more  of 
the  secret  things  going  on  in  politics.  Fitzgerald  had  to 
explain  to  her  that  he  had  had  but  little  to  do  with  politics ; 
even  the  one  editor  he  had  met  in  London  he  had  not  seen 
since  last  he  had  visited  Cork. 

"  I  heard  you  were  not  succeeding,"  remarked  Miss  Pa- 
tience, calmly. 

"  Succeeding  !  "  he  exclaimed,  with  a  sort  of  start  (for 
he  had  not  looked  at  his  struggles  in  London  in  that  way). 
"  Well,  I  have  been  trying  many  things,  and  it  is  impossible 
to  say  whether  this  or  that  may  succeed.  I  cannot  expect 
everything  at  once.  There  are  many  openings  in  literary 
and  newspaper  work ;  of  course  one  must  wait.  I  can't 
say  I  have  either  succeeded,  or  not  succeeded." 

"  Ah,"  said  Miss  Patience,  complacently.     "  That  is  all 


SHANDON  BELLS,  191 

SO  unlike  commerce.  Commerce  is  secure.  Just  think 
of  sending  a  telegram  to  Odessa — a^ few  words;  you  get  a 
re}>ly  back  the  same  day  ;  you  walk  down  to  the  Exchange 
and  buy  something;  and  you  have  earned  £2000.  Two 
thousand  pounds  ! — with  so  little  trouble " 

But  here  Kitty  came  in  ;  and  she  had  dressed  so  prettily 
and  neatly  !  He  could  not  help  regarding  her  with  admiring 
looks  ;  and  Miss  Kitty  w^as  a  little  bit  shy  and  conscious ; 
and  so  they  sat  down  to  this  middle-day  dinner — London, 
black  phantoms,  and  disappointments  all  shut  out  and  for- 
gotten. 

"  It  seems  to  me,  Kitty,"  said  he,  lightly,  "  that  a  com- 
mercial spirit  has  come  over  this  neighborhood  since  I  was 
here  last.  You  have  been  lecturing  on  political  economy 
all  the  morning  and  now  Miss  Patience  tells  me  how  easy  it 
is  to  make  £2000  by  merely  sending  a  telegram  to  Odessa. 
It  appears  to  me  that  it  might  be  just  as  easy  to  lose  £2000 
by  the  use  of  the  same  machinery." 

Kitty  glanced  at  Miss  Patience  with  a  sort  of  apprehen- 
sive look  he  could  not  understand. 

"  I  was  observing  to  Mr.  Fitzgerald  that  I  was  sorry  he 
had  not  been  successful  in  London,"  answered  that  lady 
calmly. 

"And  I  was  saying  that  I  had  neither  been  successful 
nor  non-successful,"  said  Fitzgerald  cheerfully.  "  Of  course 
there  are  a  great  many  things  to  be  tried " 

"  Oh,  of  course,"  of  course,"  said  Kitty,  hastily,  and 
with  a  touch  of  color  in  her  face.  "Ot"  course  Miss  Pa- 
tience meant  so  far  only — only  so  far.  We  know  that  it  is 
difficult  to — to — to  succeed  in  literature — of  course  Miss 
Patience  quite  understands " 

If  Miss  Patience  understood,  Fitzgerald  did  not.  Why 
this  embarrassment,  and  this  talk  about  the  advantages  of 
commerce,  and  this  assumption  that  he  had  tried  literature 
m  London  as  means  of  livelihood  and  failed  ? 

Miss  Patience  said,  with  a  gentle  smile  : — 

"  But  when  once  you  have  that  commercial  machinery 
of  which  you  speak,  Mr.  Fitzgerald,  how  nice  that  must 
be  !  It  goes  on  making  money  for  you  ;  you  can  go  away 
and  see  the  world ;  your  agents  are  enough.  That  must  be 
very  nice,  that  independence  and  security.  The  literary 
ffian,  even  the  most  successful,  is  in  so  precarious  a  posi- 
uon.  A  tile  frotn  a  roof  knocks  him  senseless  ;  h'is  means 
>f  livelihood  vanish.     No  one  else  can  do  his  work  for  him ; 


192  SHANDON  BELLS. 

it  is  like  an  artist  becoming  blind  ;  there  is  no  macliine 
that  can  cfo  on  independently  of  him  to  make  money  for  his 
wife  and  children.  Ah 'there  is  nothing  so  safe  as  that. 
Commerce  in  a  commercial  country  is  a  natural  occupation. 
And  it  is  so  safe." 

But  was  it  so  safe  ?  argued  Fitzgerald,  somewhat  hotly 
— though  he  scarcely  knew  why,  for  certainly  commerce 
had  never  done  him  any  harm.  If  it  were  so  safe  and 
natural  and  easy  to  make  £2000  by  telegraphing  to  Odessa, 
wouldn't  everybody  be  at  it?  Then  look  at  the  common 
failures.  Look  at  the  multitude  of  commercial  men  who 
were  living  on  the  very  edge  of  bankruptcy.  It  was  all 
very  well  to  have  such  a  piece  of  machinery  as  that  that  had 
been  mentioned,  but  what  if  it  happened  to  work  the  wrong 
Avay  ?  What  if  it  came  back  and  burst  you  ?  No  doubt  it 
was  a  good  thing  if  the  commercial  man  could  layby  a 
provision  for  his  wife  and  children ;  but  could  not  the  suc- 
cessful man  of  letters  do  that  too  ?  And  as  for  the  tile 
from  the  roof,  where  would  the  commercial  man  be  if  that 
hit  him  !  Accidents  were  always  possible.  What  was  not 
possible  was  that  life  should  be  based  on  the  idle  calcula- 
tions. And  success  or  no  success,  machinery  or  no  ma- 
chinery, as  for  himself,  he  said  proudly,  he  would  rather 
earn  the  plainest  living  by  literature  than  revel  in  all  the 
riches  that  could  be  procured  from  Odessa  or  anywhere 
else. 

Kilty  was  the  peacemaker. 

*'  Oh,  yes,  no  doubt,"  said  she  (though  she  seemed 
anxious  to  get  away  from  the  subject  altogether).  "  One 
would  like  to  be  what  you  say — I  mean,  it  must  be  a  great 
thing  to  be  a  great  man  of  letters ;  but  there  are  so  few, 
and  it  must  be  so  difficult.  I  am  sure  that  all  Miss  Patience 
meant  was  that  it  must  be  nice  to  have  a  business  going  on 
that  leaves  you  free  and  gives  you  no  anxiety " 

"  I  should  say  there  were  very  few  of  those,"  said  he 
*'  ]jeave  a  business,  and  it  leaves  you — the  proverb  is  com- 
mon among  business  men  themselves.  You  wake  up  some 
fine  morning  and  find  yourself  a  bankrupt." 

"  Ah,  ver}^  well,"  said  Kitty,  with  a  sigli,  "  those  at 
least  are  very  well  off  who  begin  life  with  a  fortune  ready 
made  for  them,  and  have  no  anxiety  about  it." 

"  I  don't  know  that,"  said  he  ;  "  the  enjoyment  of  life 
is  work.  I  don't  see  that  people  who  are  secui-ely  rich  are 
any  the  happier  for  it.     And  I  should  not  think  much  of 


SHA  ND ON  BEL  LS.  \  9 3 

the  woman  wliose  views  of  life  were  colored  by  tlie  pres 
ence  or  absence  of  money." 

Tliis  was  getting  more  serious.  Kitty  said,  with  a 
pleasant  laugh  : — 

"  There  is  not  much  use  in  our  talking  about  it  any- 
way ;  for  all  the  money  that  you  and  I  have,  Willie,  or  are 
likely  to  have,  won't  make  nations  fight  about  us.  I  want 
you  to  tell  Miss  Patience  about  all  the  people  you  have 
seen  in  London.  And  is  that  old  lady  really  so  nice  as  you 
say  ?  And  what  part  of  Bantry  Bay  is  the  house  you  told 
me  of,  that  her  nephew  had  ?  I  looked  in  a  map  for  Boat 
of  Garry,  but  could  see  nothing  of  it.  I  suppose  it  is  a 
small  place." 

So  there  was  nothing  further  said  about  the  advantages 
of  commerce  over  literature,  or  the  reverse;  and  presently 
Fitzgerald  found  himself  being  drawn  by  the  humor  of  the 
situation  into  giving  Miss  Patience  such  dark  hints  about 
the  ways  and  manners  of  the  great  politicians  then  in 
power  as  would  no  doubt  have  astonished  those  much-can- 
vassed persons.  Kitty  seemed  greatly  relieved;  she  lis- 
tened pleasantly;  content  reigned  over  the  modest  ban- 
quet. And  as  for  Fitzgerald,  it  was  of  little  account  to 
him  what  nonsense  he  talked  or  listened  to,  so  long  as 
Kitty  was  in  the  room.  Miss  Patience  was  treated  with 
the  gravest  respect.  From  time  to  time  he  could  steal  a 
glance  at  Kitty's  eyes. 

The  middie-day  dinner  was  long  over,  and  they  had 
gathered  round  the  fire,  when  a  step  was  heard  on  the  lit- 
tle pathway  outside,  and  then  a  loud  knock  at  the  door 
Kitty  started,  and  looked  apprehensively  at  Miss  Patience. 
There  was  an  absolute  silence ;  then  some  sounds  in  the 
passage,  and  presently  the  maid-servant  appeared. 
"  Mr.  Cobbs,  miss." 

Fitzgerald  was  fairly  stupefied  when  he  saw  tliis  young 
man  come  into  the  room  with  the  air  of  one  who  was  per- 
fectly acquainted  with  both  Kitty  and  Miss  Patience.  He 
had  never  heard  a  word  of  hira.  Who  could  he  be  ?  The 
next  moment  he  found  himself  being  introduced  to  the 
stranger;  and  these  two  regarded  each  other  with  scrutiny, 
though  the  new-comer  had  the  advantage  in  calmness.  He 
took  a  chair,  put  his  hat  and  cane  on  the  table,  and  asked 
Kitty  if  she  had  been  to  church  that  morning. 

He  was  apparently  about  twenty   or  one-and-twenty ; 
stout,   rather;  of  middle  height;  with  a  fair  complexion 


:*01  SHANDON  BELLS. 

and  close-cropped  yellow  hair;  he  was  dressed  in  the  ex- 
treme of  fashion,  and  his  liands  and  feet  were  small.  Any- 
body else  would  have  said  he  was  an  oi-dinary-looking, 
good-looking,  well-dressed  young  man,  with  perliaps  too 
obvious  a  taste  for  jewelry.  What  Fitzgerald  thought  ol 
him  and  of  the  circumstances  need  not  be  put  down  here. 

In  truth,  he  was  too  bewildered  to  have  any  clear  no- 
tion of  what  he  was  thinking.  But  he  knew  tliat,  wliatever 
the  truth  of  the  matter,  lie  could  not  openly  insult  Kitty 
by  presuming  that  anything  Avas  wrong.  He  resolved  to 
be  quite  courteous  to  this  stranger.  Wliy  should  not  an 
idle  young  gentleman  pay  an  afternoon  call?  He  resolved 
to  be  quite  courteous,  and  clinched  his  hand  behind  his 
back  to  keep  him  in  remembrance. 

Kitty,  who  appeared  to  have  lost  lier  usual  self-con- 
fident, half-satirical  manner,  seemed  extraordinarily  eager 
to  get  these  two  to  talk  together.  Mr.  Fitzgerald  had  just 
come  over  from  London  :  had  Mr.  Cobbs  been  in  London 
recently?  Both  seemed  inclined  to  talk  to  her  or  to  Miss 
Patience,  but  not  to  each  other;  and  the  embarrassment 
of  the  situation  was  obviously  increasing,  when  P^itzgerald 
determined  to  end  it.  He  saw  his  poor  little  sweetheart 
frightened  and  troubled,  and  he  could  not  have  that.  With 
much  frankness  he  began  to  speak  to  this  new-comer  ;  and 
as  men  find  politics  their  common  ground  of  conversation, 
he  asked  Mr.  Cobbs  if  he  had  noticed  any  symptoms  of 
disaffection  since  his  stay  in  the  country.  Xovv  this  was  a 
friendly  overture,  but  the  young  man  with  the  fat  fair  face 
and  the  blank  gray  eyes  chose  to  be  rather  uncivil.  He 
began  to  say  things  about  Ireland  and  the  Irish,  which  was 
not  quite  fair,  seeing  that  there  were  three  English  peo|)le 
to  one  Irishman.  Moreover,  he  talked  the  ordinary  non- 
sense that  is  talked  by  the  well-fed,  heavy-pursed  English- 
men, who  lays  down  economical  laws  about  Ireland  with- 
out any  knowledge  whatever  of  the  j)eople  or  of  the  agri- 
cultural conditions  of  the  country.  And  he  was  a  con- 
ceited creature ;  he  liked  to  hear  himself  talk ;  his  plati- 
tudes were  dictatorial  in  tone.* 

Fitzgerald  was  getting  wilder  and  wilder,  but  he  kept 
his  hands  tightly  clinched.  And  he  would  not  answer  this 
fellow  at  all.  He  spoke  to  these  other  two.  He  told  them 
what  he  knew,  what  he  liad  seen.  He  discribed  the  hag 
gard  denizens  of  the  bugland,  living  amid  ague  and  starva- 
tion ;  he  described  the  poor  devils  on  the  hillsides,  trying 


SHANDON  BELLS.  195 

to  scrape  a  living  off  rocky  soil  not  fit  to  support  rabbits; 
and  then,  when  the  bit  of  sour  bogland  had  been  slowly  re- 
claimed, or  the  potatoes  beginning  to  do  a  little  better  in 
the  stone  wall  enclosure,  the  agents  stepping  in  to  demand 
impossible  rents,  and  the  landlord,  in  London,  or  Venice  or 
Monaco,  knowing  nothing  about  it,  and  caring  less  ;  and 
then  the  eviction  of  whole  families — the  shivering  wretches 
without  a  bit  of  firewood,  let  alone  a  bit  of  bread.  And  this 
was  the  system  under  which  you  hope  to  get  a  loyal  and 
contented  peasantry  !  With  the  masses  of  the  people  be- 
lieving that  the  landlords  were  leagued  against  them;  that 
the  law  was  against  them  ;  that  the  soldiers  and  the  police 
were  against  them 

But  indeed  this  is  no  place  for  full  exposition  of  the 
picture  that  Fitzgerald  drew ;  it  is  enough  to  say  that  a 
few  minutes  had  been  sufficent  to  turn  the  Gallio  whom  the 
priest  had  remonstrated  with  into  a  politician  as  violent  as 
the  priest  himself.  Moreover,  his  vehement  declarations 
were  now  addressed  to  Kitty,  and  Kitty  timidly  assented. 
She  was  staring  into  the  fire,  not  at  all  in  a  contemplative 
mood. 

*'  But  why  don't  they  go  away  ?  "  said  Miss  Patience. 

"  God  help  them,  they  are  going  away,"  said  he.  "  in 
thousands,  though  there's  many  a  breaking  heart  leaving 
Queenstown  Harbor.  And  it's  the  young  ones  that  are 
going ;  and  the  old  ones,  who  can  do  nothing,  are  left  at 
home  to  starve." 

"  Well,  if  they  can't  earn  a  living,  they  must  suffer," 
said  the  young  Englishman.  *'  If  you  can't  live,  you  must 
die  ;  it's  the  law  of  nature.  All  'l  know  of  them  is  that 
they're  a  set  of  mean,  snivelling  wretches,  who  will  fawn 
upon  you  if  you  give  them  charity,  and  shoot  you  from  be- 
hind a  hedge  the  minute  after." 

"Only  after  you  have  given  them  charity?  Then  I 
should  say  you  were  pretty  safe,"  was  the  somewhat  too 
fierce  reply. 

Clearly  the  air  was  becoming  surcharged,  and  Miss 
Patience  prudently  left  the  room.  What  astounded  Fitz- 
gerald, however,  most  of  all  was  that  this  young  stranger 
seemed  so  much  at  home — so  familiar  with  the  apartment 
and  its  contents,  and  so  familiar  in  his  manner  with  Kitty. 
He  sat  down  to  the  piano  and  opened  it  as  if  he  had  been 
quite  accustomed  to  do  that.     He  overhauled  the  music  as 


196  SHANDON  BELLS. 

if  it  were  his  own.    And  at  last  he  said,  as  he  carelessly 
ran  his  fingers  up  and  down  the  keys  : — 

"Won't  you  sing  something,  Miss  Romayne,  and  let 
me  play  the  accompaniment  ?  Oh,  I  know  what  will  tempt 
you." 

He  rose  and  went  to  the  other  end  of  the   room   and 
fetched  a  book  of  music  back  to  the  piano.     He  opened  it ; 
played  a  few  bars  and  then  turned  round. 
""  Won't  that  tempt  you  ?  " 

"I  would  rather  not  sing,"  said  Kitty,  without  looking 
up. 

"  Really  ?    Oh  yes,  come  along." 

"  I  would  i-ather  not  sing,"  said  Kitty,  again. 

He  turned  to  Fitzgerald,  his  fingers  still  wandering 
lightly  over  the  keys. 

'*  Do  you  play  ?  "  said  he. 

The  question  was  innocent  enough,  but  Fitzgerald  con- 
sidered it  impertinent. 

"  No  I  don't,"  said  he.  "  I  don't  consider  it  man's 
work." 

"  That  is  because  you^can't  do  it,  I  suppose,"  said  the 
other.  • 

Now  there  was  just  a  trifle  too  much  of  a  sneer  in  this 
little  speech.  Fitzgerald  rose,  and  passed  him  on  the  pre- 
tence of  going  to  look  out.  As  he  passed  he  said,  in  a  low 
and  clear  voice : — 

"  I  can't  play  the  piano,  but  I  can  throw  puppies  out  of 
the  window." 

Now  whether  this  was  meant  exclusively  for  the  young 
gentleman's  ear  or  not  can  not  be  said,  but  at  all  events,  as 
he  happened  to  cease  playing  for  a  moment,  it  sounded  so 
distinctly  that  Kitty  must  have  overheard  it.  Fitzgerald 
walked  on  to  the  window,  shoved  his  hands  in  his  pockets, 
and  stared  out.  The  young  gentleman,  after  a  second  or 
two  of  silence,  rose  from  the  piano,  took  his  hat  and  cane, 
and  said  to  Kitty,  with  much  formal  politeness : — 

"  Good-afternoon,  Miss  Romayne.  I  shall  do  myself  the 
pleasure  of  calling  some  other  time,  when  you  are  not  occu- 
pied with  visitors." 

He  left. 

"  Who  is  that  fellow  ?  "  said  Fitzgerald,  turning  angrily 
from  the  window. 

"  What  fellow  ? "  said  Miss  Romayne,  with  quite  as 
much  temper.     "  He  is  a  gentleman.     You  have  no  right  to 


SITAND ON  BEL LS.  107 

insult  him.  He  is  as  much  entitled  to  civility  in  this  house 
as  you  are.  You  have  no  right  to  insult  him.  A  pretty 
opinion  lie  will  have  taken  away  of  you  !  " 

'*  T  don't  care  about  his  opinion.  I  want  to  know  what 
he  is  loing  liere." 

"  lie  called,  like  yourself,"  said  she  stubbornly. 

"  Called  ?  Yes.  And  his  calling  has  made  your  name 
a  ])yword." 

Her  eyes  flashed. 

"Kow  I  see.  You  have  heard  some  miserable  talking, 
and  that  is  why  you  have  oorae  over  so  suddenly.  Well,  I 
am  ready  to  be  cross-examined.  I  will  tell  you  what  you 
want  to  know,  if  that  is  your  purpose." 

He  looked  at  lier,  and  knew  her  mood.  It  was  not  the 
first  of  their  quarrels. 

"  We  will  take  it  that  way,"  said  he  coldly.  "  Who  is 
the  young  gentleman,  if  one  may  be  permitted  to  ask  ?  " 

"  You  have  heard  his  name.  He  belongs  to  a  firm  of 
mercliants  in  Liverpool." 

*'0h,  I  perceive,"  exclaimed  Fitzgerald,  alight  breaking 
in  on  him.  "  Tliat  accounts  for  the  hymns  of  praise  in  favor 
of  commerce " 

"  I  did  not  say  a  word  about  it,"  she  said,  hotly.  "  If 
you  want  to  insult  Miss  Patience  also,  call  her  in.  We 
ought  all  of  us  to  have  share  of  your  politeness." 

"  Bat  he  is  not  looking  after  the  machinery  that  turns 
out  two  thousand  pounds  in  a  few  hours.  He  is  not  tele- 
grapliing  to  Odessa  from  Cork,  is  he?" 

"  How  can  I  tell  ?  " 

"Do  you  know  what  he  is  doing  in  Cork?" 

"  He  is  travelling.     He  is  on  his  way  to  Killarney." 

•'Killarney!  Killarney  at  this  time  of  year!  And 
how  long  has  he  been  in  Cork  on  his  way  to  Killarney  ?  " 

"How  can  I  tell?" 

"  Some  time,  however  ?  " 

"Yes.     Some  time." 

"  And  he  has  called  here  several  times  ?  " 

"  Yes  he  has  ;  what  harm  is  there  in  that?" 

"  Oh,  I  did  not  say  there  was  any  harm " 

"But  why  are  you  talking  to  me  like  that?"  said  she, 
and  she  threw  the  book  she  was  holding  on  to  the  table. 
"  I  will  not  be  spoken  to  like  that.  I  have  done  nothing 
wrong.     I  will  not  be  spoken  to  as  if  I  were  a  child.     It  is 


198  SUA KDON  BELLS. 

you  who  ought  to  apologize.  You  have  insulted  a  friend 
of  mine  under  my  own  roof " 

"  A  friend  ?  "  said  he,  in  the  same  cold  way.  *'  Have  we 
come  to  that,  then  ?  But  I  thought  you  were  willing  to  have 
a  few  questions  asked,  that  was  all." 

'*  Yes,  I  am,"  said  she,  though  rather  sullenly.  "You 
can  find  out  what  you  like  ;  and  then  see  whether  you  have 
any  right  to  come  here  with  your  insulting  suspicions." 

*'  Have  I  mentioned  any  suspicions  ?  " 

"  You  would  not  be  here  if  you  did  not  suspect  me." 

"I  would  like  to  know  a  little  more  about  this  young 
gentleman,  Kitty." 

"  Very  well.' 

"  Where  were  you  introduced  to  him — or  w^ere  you  in- 
troduced to  him  at  all  ?  " 

"  I  was  introduced  to  him,"  she  said  quickly,  and  with 
her  cheeks  burning.     "  I  was  introduced  to  him  in  Dublin." 

*'  *  In  Dublin  '  And  so  he  has  followed  you  all  the  way 
from  Dublin?" 

"  How  dare  you  say  such  a  thing  ?  He  can  travel  where 
he  pleases ;  he  is  well  off.  He  may  be  here  on  busi- 
ness for  anj^thing  I  know." 

"  Oh  no,  Kitty,  not  on  business  ;  he  is  going  to  Killar- 
ney  in  the  middle  of  winter !  And  isn't  it  strange  that, 
since  you've  known  him  all  the  time  since  you  were  in 
Dublin,  you  never  thought  of  mentioning  his  name  in  any 
of  your  letters  to  me  ?  " 

"  I  don't  see  anything  strange  in  it,"  she  said,  pertly.  "  I 
could  not  mention  every  trifle.  I  wrote  of  the  things  that 
were  of  real  interest  to  you  and  me." 

That  phrase  "  you  and  me  "  rather  softened  him.  His 
anger  and  indignation  were  fast  oozing  away.  It  was  so 
pitiable  to  see  Kitty  standing  before  him  there,  with  eyes 
cast  down  like  a  culprit. 

"  I  should  have  thought,"  said  he,  in  a  more  gentle  way 
— "  I  should  have  thought  that  anything  that  affected  your 
good  name  would  be  of  interest  to  you  and  me." 

"  If — if  anybody,"  she  said,  with  her  lips  becoming 
tremulous,  "has  been  saying  anything — anything  against 
my  good  name,  I  did  not  expect  it — it — it  would  be  you, 
Willie." 

And  here  she  broke  into  a  passion  of  tears,  and  threw 
herself  sobbing  into  his  arms,  and  clung  to  him. 

"  Willie,  there's  nothinoj  wrong ;  I  can  not  bear  to  have 


SllANDOA'  BELLS.  199 

you  S]ieak  like  tliat  to  me.  You  break  my  heart.  I  would 
ratlier  die  than  have  you  augry  with  me.  There  was  noth- 
ing wrong,  VVilUe — there  is  no  harm  in  anything  I  have 
done — he — he  is  only  a  boy — and  he  was  so  good  and  kind 
when — when  they  gave  me  a  benefit — and  everybody  spoke 
so  well  of  him " 

*■*  But  why  didn't  you  tell  me  all  this  before?"  said  ho» 

"  It  would  only  have  worried  you,"  she  sobbed.  "Yon 
were  so  far  away.  You  could  not  understand.  But  now  1 
hate  him  for  coming  between  you  and  me.  Why  should  lie 
have  caused  such  trouble?  N^obody  asked  him  to  como 
liere " 

"Well,  Kitty,*'  said  he,  taking  her  small  head  in  his 
hands  in  the  old  way  and  kissing  her,  "  I  think  no  harm 
lias  been  done ;  but  you  have  been  so  imprudent " 

"  Oh  I  will  confess  anything,  if  only  you  speak  to  me 
like  that,"  said  she,  gladly,  as  she  looked  up  through  her 
tears. 

"  There  would  have  been  no  trouble  if  only  you  had  let 
me  know.  Of  course  what  I  said  about  their  taking  away 
your  good  name  was  perhaps  too  serious.  They  have  been 
talking,  though  ;  and  I  should  not  have  heeded  one  moment 
what  they  said  if  only  I  had  knoAvn  beforehand " 

"  I  am  sure  don't  care  what  they  say,"  said  she,  taking 
liis  hand  and  kissing  it,  "  so  long  as  you  don't  quarrel  with 
me,  Willie.  And  1  ought  to  have  known.  Miss  Patience 
told  me  something  like  this  would  happen.  *  But,'  I  said 
to  her,  'surely  he  can't  object  to  any  one  paying  us  an  after- 
noon call ;  there's  no  harm  in  that.'  And  if  you  only  knew 
liow  lonesome  it  is  for  us  two,  Willie,  sometimes,  you  would 
understand  how  glad  we  were  to  have  an  occasional  visitor. 
Then  he  was  very  kind  about  the  benefit ;  he  took  £20  worth 
of  tickets — that  was  from  me,  not  from  the  agents,  so  we 
did  not  lose  the  commission  ;  and  I  have  saved  so  much  this 
winter  that  if  it  were  only  summer  weather  now,  I'd  treat 
jou  and  me  and  Miss  Patience  to  a  trip  to  Killarney." 

"Kitty,"  he  said  sharply, "  that  fellow  is  humbugging 
you.  He  is  not  thinking  of  Killarney  at  all.  He  is  dawd- 
ling after  you,  and  peo])le  have  noticed  it.  Now  for 
your  own  sake,  and  for  mine,  and  for  the  sake  of  what  has 
been  between  us  in  bygone  days,  you  will  have  to  be  a  little 
more — more  circumspect,  Kitty." 

"Oh,"  said  she,  cheerfully,  " I  am  willing  to  take  any 
amount  of  scolding — that  way.     If  only  you  hold   me  in 


2Ci)  SfTA ND ON  BEL LS, 

your  arms,  you  can  scold  away.  Aud  I  believe  it  all  then. 
1  believe  I  am  very  bad.  Of  course  I  don't  believe  it  when 
you  provoke  me,  and  make  me  feel  hurt  and  injured  ;  then 
it's  you  who  are  in  the  wron^.  And  now  you  know  how 
to  make  me  do  just  as  you  like." 

Making  up  a  quarrel  with  Kitty  was  very  nice  ;  and  it 
p,'ene rally  lasted  a  good  long  time  between  these  two. 
Tiiere  was  a  tap  at  the  door. 

"  Come  in,"  says  Kitty,  quickly  putting  a  considerable 
distance  between  them. 

*'  Please,  miss.  Miss  Patience  wants  to  know  when  ye'd 
be  for  having  your  tay." 

"Oh,  now,  at  once,  tell  her."  And  then  she  turned  to 
Fitzgerald  :  "And  now.  Master  Willie,  will  you  help  me  to 
light  the  gas  ?  And  we  A'ill  have  the  blind  down ;  then  tea ; 
then  you  shall  read  to  us  '  The  Battle  of  Ivry,'  and  it  will 
be  all  like  old  times  again.  How  odd  it  is,"  she  proceeded, 
as  she  laid  the  cloth,  "  that  we  are  always  glad  to  have  some- 
thing like  something  that  has  happened  to  us  before  !  I 
suppose  in  a  year  or  two  we  shall  be  sayhig, '  Come  along, 
now,  and  let  us  have  tea  snugly,  like  the  old  times,  like  the 
Sunday  after  the  quarrel.  And  it  will  be  better  than  if  we 
had  nothing  to  look  back  to." 

"  And  where  will  that  tea  take  place,  Kitty  ?  "  said  he 

"  Where,  indeed  ?  "  said  she,  cheerfully.  "  Who  can 
tell  ?     I  suppose  in  London." 

Miss  Patience  came  in,  looking  rather  frightened.  But 
she  was  greatly  relieved  to  find  that  her  two  companions 
were  on  excellent  terms;  indeed,  when  they  all  sat  down  to 
the  tea  table,  she  had  to  rebuke  Kitty  for  facetiously  refer- 
ring to  Mr.  Cobbs  as  the  "  fat  boy." 

"  He  is  in  an  important  position,"  said  she,  with  some 
dignity.  "  Ho  has  it  in  his  power  to  do  a  great  deal  of  good. 
He  can  afford  to  be  charitable.  He  has  not  to  think  of 
himself." 

"  That  is  fortunate,  at  least,"  said  Fitzgerald,  ungener- 
ously, "  for  he  would  have  little  to  think  of,  and  little  to 
do  the  thinking  with.  Now  it  seemed  to  me  that  he  thought 
a  great  deal  of  himself." 

"He  is  a  very  elegant-mannered  young  man,"  said  Misa 
Patience,  with  precision.  "  He  is  in  an  enviable  situation — 
free  from  care,  and  able  to  attend  to  others.  The  country 
needs  such  persons;  not  adventurers  who  make  money  out 
of  their  politics,  but  gentlemen — educated  gentlemen — wh-/ 


SIIANDON  BELLS.  201 

are  above  bril)es,  and  can  help  to  govern  the  country  disin- 
terestedly. He  belongs  to  the  class  of  men  to  whom  we 
have  to  look  for  i)roper  government " 

"  God  lielp  us,  then  ! "  said  Fitzgerald,  inadvertently. 

"  And  I  am  glad'  to  say  that  his  opinions  on  public 
affairs " 

''His  what?" 

*'  His  opinions,"  repeated  Miss  Patience,  with  dignity. 

"  Well,  to  call  the  ignorant  prejudices  of  \  conceited 
young  donkey  like  that  opinions  is,  at  all  events,  courteous. 
But  no  harm  is  done  by  the  existence  of  such  creatures. 
They  go  circling  about  the  world,  aimless,  placeless,  with 
no  more  influence,  on  real  politics  than  the  pointers  and 
setters  of  the  United  Kingdom.  I  dare  say  these  young 
gentlemen  encourage  the  importation  of  third-rate  cigars 
from  Havana;  and  they  add  greatly  to  the  profits  of  the 
producers  of  bad  champagne;  and  so  there  is  a  kind  of 
reason  fur  their  existence." 

"  He  is  a  very  nice  boy,  and  I  won't  have  such  things 
said  about  him,"  interposed  Kitty;  but  she  was  laughing, 
for  Miss  Patience  looked  offended. 

"  One  thing  you  can't  help  admiring  about  him,"  con- 
tinued Fitzgerald,  talking  with  familiar  contempt  about  Mr, 
Cobbs,  as  if  he  were  some  insect  before  them, "  is  his  for- 
bearance. Just  fancy !  Most  men  who  could  make  £2000 
in  twenty-five  minutes  by  remaining  in  Liverpool  would 
think  twice  before  coming  away  over  to  Cork  and  doing 
nothing.  Look  at  that  forbearance  !  He  might  affect  the 
currency  by  draining  such  masses  of  gold  from  Odessa  and 
elsewhere  into  England.  Or  is  it  his  imagination  that  is 
most  to  be  admired  ?  " 

"  Willie  !  "  Kitty  said,  reproachfully.  "-  You  seem  to 
liave  caught  up  the  London  Avay  of  believing  in  nothing." 

"  Oh  no,"  said  he  ;  "  I  am  pursuing  a  philosophical  in- 
vestigation. I  want  to  know  which  part  of  his  character 
to  admire  the  most.  I  think  it  must  be  imagination — or 
prudence  ? — he  departed  quickly." 

"I  thought  he  behaved  very  w^ell,  and  you  abominably," 
said  Kitty,  with  her  accustomed  frankness.  "  And  you  have 
never  yet  apologized  to  me  for  your  rudeness." 

"Well,  I  do  now,  Kitty.  I  shall  never  be  so  rude  again 
before  you." 

She  touched  his  hand  beneath  the  table. 


202  SHANDOM  BELLS, 

"  You  shall  never  have  occasion  again,"  said  she,  in  a 
low  voice. 

It  was  a  long  afternoon  and  evening ;  but  no  afternoon 
and  evening  was  half  long  enough  when  he  and  Kitty  were 
together.  And  Miss  Patience  was  kind  ;  she  went  away 
occasionally — perhaps  to  her  politics — leaving  them  to- 
gether in  the  hushed  warm  little  parlor,  all  thoughts  of  the 
dark  world  of  London  shut  out,  and  only  present  to  them 
the  memories  of  summer  rambles  and  of  moonlight  walks 
along  the  coast  of  Inisheen.  Kitty  was  as  pleased  and 
pretty  and  fascinating  as  ever ;  you  would  not  have  thought 
that,  but  a  few  hours  before,  she  had  been  standing  opposite 
him  with  her  eyes  flashing  and  her  cheeks  pale  with  anger. 
She  was  now  so  gentle,  so  winning ;  the  touch  of  her  warm 
little  hand  was  soft  as  velvet. 

**And  must  you  really  go  away  again  to-morrow, 
Willie?"  she  said.  She  was  seated  on  the  hearthrug  be- 
fore the  fire,  her  head  just  touching  his  knee. 

"I  must  indeed.  I  wrote  to  Mrs.  Chetwynd,  begging 
her  to  let  me  off  to-morrow  night ;  and  to-morrow  night  I 
shall  be  neither  there  nor  here,  but  on  the  wide  sea  that 
separates  us,  Kitty." 

"  It,  is  such  a  long  journey  to  take  for  merely  a  little 
talk  like  this." 

"For  more  than  that,  Kitty." 

She  blushed  somewhat,  but  said  nothing. 

"  I  am  coming  to  the  station  to  see  you  olf  to-morrow,'* 
said  she  at  length. 

"  Would  you  ?  "  said  he,  with  great  delight.  "  Would 
you  take  the  trouble  ?  " 

"  The  trouble  !  "  she  exclaimed.  "  And  I  am  going  to  do 
more  than  that,  if  you  will  let  me.  I  want  to  get  a  proper 
kind  of  luncheon  for  you  in  a  little  basket,  because — 
because  it  is  a  woman's  place  to  provide  such  things,"  said 
Kitty,  with  a  trifle  of  self-conscious  pride.  "  And  I  know 
what  you  men  do  :  you  stuff  a  lot  of  sandwiches  into  a 
piece  of  paper,  and  take  them  out  and  eat  them  when  they 
are  like  leather." 

"  Not  I,"  said  he.  "  I  have  had  a  warning.  An  Acade- 
mician's wife  told  me  that  sandwiches  were  most  per- 
nicious." 

"  An  Academician's  wife  !  "  said  Kitty.  "  And  yet  you 
deny  you  go  out  among  those  great  ladies  in  London  ! 
Why  don't  you  make  haste,  and  make  me  a  great  lady,  and 


SHANDON  BELLS.  203 

take  nie  about  with  you,  instead  of  gallivanting  about  by 
yourself?  " 

"  Am  I  not  making  haste,  Kitty?" 

"  Yes,  sitting  by  a  fire  in  Audley  Place,  and  letting  mo 
stroke  your  hand,  while  you  ought  to  be  fighting  tooth  and 
nnil  in  London,  with  all  your  armor  on,  careering  every 
thing  down  before  you." 

"  If  it  was  that  kind  of  fighting,  Kitty,  perha])s  it  would 
bo  easier,"  said  he,  absently;  for  he  was  thinking  of  the 
loncily  room  to  which  he  was  returning,  wdth  no  Kitty  to 
sit  by  him  on  the  hearthrug,  and  stir  the  fire  when  it  was 
getting  low. 

N(»xt  morning  he  thought  she  had  forgotten  her  prom- 
ise, for  it  was  near  the  time  of  starting,  and  yet  no  Kitty 
liad  put  in  an  appearance.  Then  he  saw  her  come  quickly 
along,  alone;  and  she  was  breathless  \vhen  she  reached 
him. 

"  Oh,  Willie,  I  thought  I  was  too  late ;  but  here  is  the 
basket,  and  if  the  pie  is  a  Utile  warm  still,  it  will  be  cold 
by  the  time  you  want  it.  I  made  it  myself,"  she  said,  with 
a  laugh  and  a  blush,  "  last  night  after  you  were  gone " 

"  Last  night !  "  he  said.     "  After  twelve  ?  " 

"What  was  that,  compared  to  your  comfort?"  said 
she,  boldly.  "  And  I  thought  you  would  like  to  know  that 
mv  hands  could  do  something^  besides — besides  kissinsj  a 
good-by  to  you.  And  I  was  up  this  morning  by  six  to  get 
it  in  the  oven.  Oh,  Willie,  I  have  had  so  little  time,"  she 
added,  breathlessly  ;  "  I  could  not  quite  get  all  the  sawdust 
oH  the  grapes,  so  be  a  little  careful " 

"  Oh,  never  mind  these  things,"  said  he,  for  the  guard 
was  impatient.  "  But  it  is  so  kind  of  you  Kitty.  You  are 
always  kind.  And  now  1  am  going  away  again  —  who 
knows  for  how  long  ?  " 

"  That  depends  on  you,"  she  said,  with  a  smile  ;  and 
she  kissed  him,  and  slie  kept  waving  her  handkerchief  until 
the  train  was  quite  out  of  sight. 

lie  was  alone  in  the  carriage  ;  and  he  was  gazing  out  of 
the  window,  seeing  nothing.  His  whole  visit  this  time  had 
been  so  rapid  and  so  strange.  And  he  was  so  glad  to  take 
aw\ay  with  him  the  renewed  assurance  of  Kitty's  faith  and 
constancy  and  love  that  he  could  scarcely  admit  to  himself 
the  presence  of  a  consciousness  that  it  was  now  become 
more  urgent  than  ever  that  he  should  seek  to  whi  his  way 
in  London. 


20-1  SIIANDON  BELLS. 

Tlio  (lay  wore  on  with  these  imaginings,  until  at  last  cne 
base  claims  of  hunger  reminded  him  that  he  had  been  so 
nngi'ateful  as  to  forget  aF  about  Kitty's  parting  gift.  You 
may  imagine  the  interest  and  delight  with  which  he  opened 
the  pretty  little  basket,  and  bethought  him  how  Kitty's 
own  fingers  had  placed  such  and  such  things  there  for  him. 
Indeed,  a  woman's  hand  was  visible  everywhere  in  the 
neatness  with  which  everything  was  wrapped  \\\>  and  ar- 
ranged. There  w^as  a  small  table  napkin,  as  white  as  snow. 
The  knife  and  fork  and  spoon  were  all  brilliant ;  and  there 
was  a  tiny  tumbler  along  with  the  half-bottle  of  claret. 
There  was  the  })ie  that  she  had  waited  up  in  the  night-time 
to  make  for  him;  and  liad  she  dressed  the  salad,  too?  He 
could  see  no  sawdust  at  all  on  the  bunch  of  grapes.  And 
then  his  eyes  and  thoughts  wandered  away  altogether  from 
the  materials  of  the  little  banquet ;  and  he  thought  what  a 
])retty  housewife  Kitty  would  make,  filling  the  rooms  with 
light,  and  singing  and  hurrying  up  everybody  in  her  fearless, 
independent  way.  And  the  rooms  through  which  he  saw 
lier  moving  were  the  rooms  of  the  little  green  and  white 
house  at  Chelsea. 

He  had  a  beautiful  night  for  crossing.  The  stars  were 
extraordinarily  brilliant.  As  the  huge  ship  ploughed  her 
way  through  the  black  waves,  all  the  interest  of  the  night 
was  centred  in  the  clear  dome  above,  where  the  myriad  eyes 
throbbed  or  gazed  steadily.  There  was  the  resplendent 
Jupiter,  not  far  from  the  misty  Pleiades  ;  Mars  was  unua- 
ally  high  in  the  heavens;  Orion's  jewels  flashed;  the  great 
world  above  was  lit  with  a  million  fires,  while  the  one  below 
was  but  a  mournful  sound  of  unseen  water.  And  perhaps 
this  young  fellow  sitting  there  on  deck  in  the  cold  night 
(with  his  heart  very  warm  with  love)  may  lune  laughed  to 
himself  when  he  imagined  what  the  scientific  folk  who  came 
to  Hyde  Park  Gardens  would  think  of  his  way  of  looking 
at  the  stars.  He  had  no  anxiety  to  know  whether  there 
was  any  chloride  of  sodium  in  them.  When  he  regarded 
their  brilliancy  he  thought  of  Kitty's  eyes ;  their  patient  re- 
appearance night  after  night,  year  after  year,  only  reminded 
liim  of  Kitty's  faithfulness  ;  and  the  far-reacliing  and  lumin- 
ous heavens  themselves  seemed  really  to  belong  to  Inisheen, 
and  to  him,  and  to  her,  and  to  their  secret  walks  along  the 
shores  in  the  nights  gone  by. 


SHANDON  BELLS.  205 

CHAPTER  XIX. 

A    TKOSPECT. 

The  first  thing  that  Fitzgerald  did  on  returning  to  Lon- 
don was  to  hunt  up  Andy  the  Hopper,  and  transfer  him 
from  Limeliouse  to  the  Fulham  Road  ;  and  during  these 
next  few  days,  while  Andy  Iiung  about  and  acted  as  gen- 
eral servant  as  well  as  lie  could,  and  while  Jolin  Ross  and 
his  neighbor  made  successive  experiments  with  the  wild 
fowl  and  game  that  had  come  from  the  south  of  Ireland, 
things  went  cheerfully  enough.  The  woodcock  were 
Inisheen  woodcock,  and  he  was  proud  that  Ross  approved 
of  them  highly.  Then  he  took  Andy  to  see  one  or  two  of 
the  sights  of  London  ;  but  Andy  was  somewhat  of  a  failure. 
He  merely  gaped.  Fitzgerald  (so  desperate  was  his  need) 
thought  he  might  induce  some  editor  to  accept  a  paper 
descri])tive  of  a  wild  Irishman's  lirst  impressions  of  the 
great  city  ;  but  he  could  not  make  much  out  of  the  staring 
eyes,  the  open  mouth,  and  the  occasional  muttered  exclama- 
tion which  were  the  only  evidences  of  Andy's  amazement." 

At  last,  when  Andy  was  going  away,  Fitzgerald  said 
to  him. 

"  Look  here,  Andy,  I  have  a  word  for  you." 

"  Av  ye  plase,  sir." 

"You  may  as  well  know  that  I  am  going  to  marry  the 
young  lady  Avho  was  at  Inisheen  that  time  you  remember." 

"Baithershins,  Masther  Willie  !  "  exclahned  Andy,  with 
a  vast  and  capacious  grin.  "'Twas  the  divil's  own  diver- 
sion for  ye  to  go  sporting  about  with  the  gyud,  and  thin 
to  go  and  lave  her  like  that " 

"Hold  your  tongue  or  I'll  pitch  you  down  the  stair," 
said  Fitzgerald,  angrily  ;  and  Andy's  face  changed  instantly, 
for  he  perceived  that  this  was  no  joke  at  all. 

"  Is  it  thrue,  Masther  Willie  ?  "  said  he,  with  great  con- 
cern. 

"It  is  true.  She  is  going  to  be  my  wife;  now  you 
know." 

"  'Tis  the  proud  gyurl  she'll  be,  thin  !  "  snid  And}/^. 
*' Oh,  didn't  I  suspect  that  same  now,  for  all  the  jokin'  ? 
*  Sure,'  I  said,  '  Masther  Willie   wouldn't  be   afther  takiu 


206  SHANDON  BELLS. 

the  tbroub'io  to  walk  abcnit  wid  the  English  young  lady  if 
'twasn't  a  coortin*?'  Oh,  the  beautiful  young  crayture, 
how!  Sure  a  purtier  young  lady  ye  wouldn't  find  betwixt 
the  Blackwater  and  the  Shannon.  She's  the  flower  o'  fay- 
males,  and  that's  thrue." 

"  The  what  ?  " 

Andy  glanced  at  the  young  master  anxiously 

"  'Tis  what  they  say  in  poethry,"  said  he,  with  some 
hesitation. 

"  Well,  attend  to  me,  Andy.  There  has  been  some  gos- 
siping going  on  in  Inisheen,  I  gather.  Well,  now,  attend 
to  this :  the  first  that  you  hear  say  anything  about  that 
young  lady,  you  take  your  hopping-pole  and  lay  it  over  his 
head.     Do  you  understand  that,  now  ?  " 

"Faix,  it  might  be  my  own  head  I'd  have  to  break, 
thin,"  said  Andy.  "  For  wasn't  it  mesilf  that  brought  the 
story  of  what  Corney  Malone — the  divil  swape  him  ! — was 
saying  ?  But  sure,  Masther  Willie,  when  they  know  you're 
going  to  marry  the  young  lady — the  beautiful  crayture  she 
is! — do  ye  think  they'd  be  afther  saying  anything  more?" 
Then  Andy,  after  a  second,  added,  valiantly :  "  No  matther, 
Masther  Willie  ;  if  the  laping  pole  will  do,  'tis  at  your  sar- 
vice  ;  and  divil  the  man  or  boy  in  Inisheen  has  a  head  so 
thick  that  it  won't  break — glory  be  to  God  ! " 

But  Fitzgerald  also  knew  that  there  would  be  no  more 
gossiping  after  this  authoritative  announcement  ;  and  why 
should  it  not  be  known  that  he  was  going  to  marry 
Kitty  ? 

So  Andy  went  away  back  to  Ireland;  and  the  days 
passed ;  and  spring  came  in  mild  and  humid  weather  to 
Chelsea;  and  the  old  hard  fight  was  continued,  now  with 
illusive  hopes,  now  with  keen  disappointments,  always  with 
a  terrible  anxiety.  For  that  was  what  he  had  definitely 
brought  away  with  him  from  Cork — a  haunting  conscious- 
ness tliat  it  was  necessary  he  should  get  on  at  once.  And 
liow  could  he  bring  editors  to  understand  that  ?  They 
knew  nothing  about  Inisheen.  They  would  keep  his  MSS. 
for  indefinite  periods ;  sometimes  return  them  after  the  sub- 
ject of  \vhich  they  treated  had  passed  from  the  public 
mind.  For  Fitzgerald,  having  brought  his  burlesque  of  pot- 
house politics  to  an  end,  had  begun  to  try  his  hand  at  real 
politics ;  but  the  difficulty  was  to  get  an  opening  for  these 
carefully  prepared  articles  of  his.  More  than  once  the  con- 
ductor of  a  journal  took  the  trouble  to  write  to  him  in  re- 


SHANDON  BELLS.  207 

turning  one  of  these,  to  explain  that  he  approved  of  it,  and 
might  have  used  it  in  his  paper  but  that  all  such  subjects 
were  treated  by  the  regular  members  of  his  staff,  which  at 
the  moment  was  full.  Fitzgerald  found  most  encourage- 
ment from  the  projectors  of  new  magazines,  who  were  pre- 
pared to  put  him  on  their  staff  at  once  ;  but  as  his  payment 
in  most  cases  was  to  be  contingent  on  some  future  share  of 
profits  the  arrangement  did  not  seem  satisfactory.  By  some' 
extraordinary  chance,  which  he  himself  could  scarcely  under 
stand,  he  got  one  article  inserted  in  the  monthly  magazine 
which  at  that  time  was  far  and  away  ahead  of  all  its  fel- 
lows ;  and  as  his  name  was  attached,  he  had  at  least  the 
j)ride  of  sending  it  to  Kitty.  But  his  subsequent  efforts  in 
that  direction  only  resulted  in  heartrending  delay  and  dis- 
appointment. In  short,  he  had  to  learn,  as  many  an  unfor- 
tunate wretch  has  had  to  learn,  and  will  have  to  learn,  that 
fugitive  writing  of  this  kind  is  valueless  as  a  means  of  liv- 

"  Ye  are  trying  too  much,  laddie,'*  said  John  Ross  to 
him  one  evening  when  they  were  having  a  smoke  together 
in  the  hollow-sounding  studio.  "  Ye  are  writing  about 
everything  in  the  universe.  Is  it  politics  or  leeterature 
ye're  after?" 

"  I  don't  know,"  said  Fitzgerakl.  "What  I  do  know 
is  that  I  ought  to  have  been  learning  shorthand  when  I 
was  shooting  snipe.  Then  I  could  have  got  on  in  news- 
paper work  by  the  usual  stages.  Now  I  can't  get  my  foot  on 
the  first  rung  of  the  ladder — unless  it's  the  treadmill; 
that's  the  only  occupation  in  this  country  that  you  can  get 
hold  of  without  any  introduction  or  training.  Oh,  of 
course,  what  I  should  like  would  be  literature,"  he  added, 
remembering  the  dreams  with  which  he  had  set  out  for 
London.  "  But  I  don't  see  any  permanent  work  in  that. 
What  they  seem  to  like  best  is  my  verses  ;  and  these  you 
can't  manufacture  at  will.  I  have  once  or  twice  tried 
writing  a  novel.  That  is  no  use  :  I  found  myself  imitating 
somebody  else  in  spite  of  myself.  No,  the  only  constant 
occupation  for  a  writing  man  I  see  is  newspaper  work,  and 
all  the  newspaper  offices  are  full.  Never  mind,"  said  he, 
cheerfully,  as  he  struck  another  match,  "  I  can  live.  I  can 
always  earn  my  living  as  a  gamekeeper.  Perhaps  it  was 
too  cheeky  of  me  to  come  away  from  Cork  and  attempt  to 
fight  my  way,  single-handed,  in  London  literature.  I  had 
no  introductions,  no   influence.       1  got  some   help  at  the 


208  SIIAND  ON  BELLS. 

beginning;    but    I    had    to    pay  for  that    pretty    heavily. 
Well,  I  hare  not  quite  given  in  yet.     I  mean  still  to  try 

for  a  time.     And  then,  if  I  am  beaten well,  I  shall  have 

had  the  experience ;  that  is  something." 

He  had  been  talking  very  contentedly  and  even  cheer- 
fully ;  but  now  a  slight  shadow  seemed  to  come  over  the 
square  forehead  and  the  clear  and  thoughtful  eyes. 

"  Life  would  be  a  simple  matter — it  would  be  easy 
enough,"  said  he,  "  if  one  had  only  one's  self  to  consider. 
But  it  is  different  when  you  have  to  ask  some  one  else  for 
tlie  sacrifice  of  expectations." 

Ross  glanced  at  him. 

"  That  depends  on  the  young  lass  herself,"  said  he ;  "  that 
depends  on  what  8he  is  like." 

Fitzgerald  was  too  deeuly  occupied  to  resent  the  imputa- 
tation  or   inference. 

"  Ross,"  said  he,  eagerly,  "  you've  never  told  me  what 
you  think  about  Avomen.  You've  talked  about  everything 
else  in  the  world,  I  believe,  except  that." 

The  other  laughed. 

"  What  I  think  about  women  ?"  said  he.  "  The  laddie's 
cracked.  What  chance  has  any  man  o'  forming  a  judgment 
on  the  half  o'  the  human  race?  Ye  may  get  to  know  two 
w^omen,  or  three  women,  or  maybe  even  half  a  dozen  wo- 
men, in  the  whole  course  of  your  life;  and  ye're  well  off  if 
they  hai^pen  to  be  decent  sort  o'  creatures,  for  its  from  them 
ye  are  likely  to  form  your  opeenion  o'  the  whole  lot." 

"  You  remember  me  telling  you  about  Hilton  Clarke?" 

"  I  remember  the  meeserable  wretch,"  said  Ross,  plainly. 

"  Oh,  but  I  bear  him  no  grudge,"  said  Fitzgerald.  "  At 
least,  not  for  the  money  part  of  the  business.  I  don't  be- 
lieve he  meant  to  swindle  anybody.  It  was  merely  that  he 
was  lacking  in  a  kind  of  sixth  sense  that  keeps  most  people 
straight  about  money.  I  dare  say,  if  he  had  money  to- 
morrow, and  I  wanted  it,  he  Would  let  me  have  it." 

"I  dare  say  he  would  do  nothing  of  the  kind,"  said 
Ross,  severely.  "  And  the  sixth  sense  ye  speak  of — do  ye 
mean  common  honesty?" 

"  Well,  it  isn't  that  that  I  remember  against  him  ;  but 
he  had  a  most  pernicious  habit  of  putting  things  into  your 

head " 

"Put  them  out  again,  then,  for  God's  sake.  Would  ye 
listen  to  the  teaching  of  a  man  like  that  ?  " 

"  But  it  is  not  so  easy  to   put   them   out.     You   keep 


SHAAWON-  BELLS.  209 

asking  yourself  whether  his  theories  are  true  or  net;  and 
then  life  is  so  much  of  a  mystery ;  and  people  who  are 
older  than  you  yourself  are  must  have  had  so  much  more 
experience  of  human  nature " 

"  That  ye  should  believe  them?  No.  I  say  no  !  "  John 
Ross  said  ;  and  whatever  he  did  say  he  said  emphatically, 
even  if  it  involved  the  knocking  off  the  head  of  his  pipe. 
"  I  say  no.  I  say,  ask  first  of  all  with  what  sort  of  spec- 
tacles they  have  been  looking  at  human  nature." 

"  For  example,"  said  Fitzgerald — but  why  did  ho  avert 
liis  eyes,  and  pretend  to  be  busy  with  the  stove,  to  hide  his 
shamefacedness  ? — "  he  had  a  theory,  or  a  conviction  rather, 
that  there  were  many  women  who  were  really  too  affec- 
tionate— too  kind  and  generous — who  really  could  not  help 
falling  in  love  with  anybody  who  was  near  them.  He  said 
they  would  keep  quite  faithful  and  true  so  long  as  you  were 
beside  them ;  but  in  absence  they  could  not  help  letting 
their  tenderness  of  heart  begin  to  suggest  possibilities ; 
until,  perhaps  before  they  quite  knew  themselves,  they 
grew  fonder  and  fonder  of  the  new-comer;  and  then  you 
see  what  the  world  would  call  the  breaking  of  a  troth  :  heart- 
lessness,  or  something  like  that^  had  really  come  about  be- 
cause the  woman  had  too  much  kindness  and  affection  in 
her  nature " 

"  What  kind  of  a  woman  do  ye  call  that  ?  "  said  Ross, 
with  harsh  contempt.  "  What  kind  of  affection  do  ye  call 
that  ?  I  call  it  the  affection  that  exists  between  rabbits. 
God  be  thanked,  that's  no  the  kind  o'  women  I  have 
met " 

"  Then  you  don't  think  there  are  such  women  ?  "  said 
Fitzgerald,  eagerly,  and  he  raised  his  head  at  last — "women 
wliose  excess  of  kindness  would  always  be  keeping  one  in 
anxiety  ?     You  think  that  was  merely  a  fantastic  theory?  " 

"I  mind  one  poor  lass,"  said  Ross,  absently,  "that  had 
too  much  love  in  her  heart ;  but  that  was  not  the  way  it 
went.  A  winsome  bit  lassie  slie  was ;  so  jimp  and  neat 
and  blithe  ;  and  I  think  half  the  laddies  in  the  school  where 
I  was  at  Beith  were  head  over  ears  in  love  with  her ;  and 
mony's  the  sair  fight  there  was  amongst  us  about  her.  She 
was  to  be  married  to  a  young  fellow — a  sailor-lad  he  was, 
I  think — though  she  was  but  sixteen  or  seventeen ;  and 
what  must  he  do  one  night  at  Greenock  but  get  fuddled, 
and  go  out  capering  in  a  boat  in  one  of  the  docks,  and  get 


210  SlIANDON  BELLS. 

droAvne  1  in  the  dark.  The  poor  lass  never  held  up  her 
head.  She  had  some  money,  too ;  for  her  father  had  left 
her  some  bits  of  cottages  at  Beith  ;  and  many  a  one  came 
after  her  ;  but  she  had  not  a  word  for  any  of  them.  She 
just  dwindled  away — though  she  had  been  as  healthy  a  lass 
as  any  in  the  parish ;  and  in  three  or  four  years'  time  they 
put  her  in  the  kirkyard  ;  and  though  folk  say  that  nobody 
ever  dies  o'  a  broken  heart,  I  do  not  know  what  else  it  was 
that  Jean  Shaw  died  o'.  Ay,  that  was  one.  Then  there 
were  two  more — I  may  say  three — that  never  married  be- 
cause they  could  not  get  the  man  they  wanted.  That's 
four — a  good  number  in  one  man's  experience.  Oh,  but 
I've  known  the  other  side  too — young  lasses  changing  their 
mind — giddy  creatures,  for  the  most  part,  wanting  to  cut  a 
dash  with  more  money  than  their  first  sweetheart  had. 
And  there's  one,"  said  he,  with  a  grim  smile,  "  that  I 
would  like  to  know  more  about  now.  She  was  in  a  place 
in  Glasgow — I  mean  she  was  a  servant  lass — and  her  sweet- 
heart was  a  working  plumber — a  roaring,  swearing,  drunken 
sort  o'  fellow.  Then  she  must  needs  take  up  with  some 
shopkeeper  laddie,  as  being  more  genteel,  d'ye  see ;  and 
there  was  some  quarrelling,  Aintil  the  plumber  got  hold  o' 
the  young  fellow,  and  smashed  him  almost  into  bits.  That 
w\as  a  seven  years'  business  for  him.  So  as  soon  as  he  was 
safe  out  o'  the  way,  she  married  the  shopkeeper ;  and  no 
doubt  everything  went  well  until  the  seven  years  began  to 
come  down  to  six  and  five  and  four  and  three.  The  last  I 
heard  was  that  the  husband  and  wife  were  living  in  daily 
fear  o'  their  lives  ;  for  the  plumber  was  soon  to  be  out,  and 
he  had  sworn  to  murder  the  pair  o'  them.  Man,"  said 
Ross,  bringing  down  his  fist  on  his  knee,  '*  why  dinna  you 
leeterary  people  go  where  ye  can  see  human  passion  in  the 
rough,  where  ye  can  see  the  real  tragedy  of  life  ?  That  is 
no  among  the  fine  people — the  nobeelity  ;  for  there  money 
lets  an  ill-assorted  couple  go  different  ways  :  and  at  the 
worst,  if  the  wife  goes  to  the  bad,  the  husband  is  too  much 
of  a  philosopher  to  bother  himself  into  a  rage  about  it,  for 
he  has  run  through  all  the  experiences  of  life  long  before 
lie  ever  got  married.  And  it's  no  among  the  middle  classes  ; 
they  are  too  well-conducted  and  circumspect ;  they  fear  the 
talk  o'  their  church-going  and  chapel-going  neighbors.  No, 
it's  among  the  lower,  or  even  the  lowest,  classes,  that  the 
passions  are  simple  and  intense.  When  the  woman  is  faith- 
less, the  man  murders  her,  or  tries  to,  regardless  of  snbse 


S HAND  ON  BELLS.  211 

qiiences.  Starvation,  the  madness  o'  drink,  the  pitiableness 
o'  the  weak,  the  fight  for  bread — these  are  the  the  things  that 
show  ye  what  the  struggles,  the  passions,  the  bigness,  the 
littleness,  o'  human  nature  are.  Leave  your  books,  man, 
and  yet  out  to  Bermondsey,  or  Spitalfields,  or  Shadwell, 
and  study  the  men  and  women  there " 

"Oh,  I  am  not  a  dramatist,"  said  Fitzgerald.  "  Besides 
I  think  you  are  quite  mistaken."  Boss  was  continually  dog- 
matising about  his  own  profession ;  why  shonld  not  he  about 
his?  "You  may  find  brute  force  there,  and  violent  jeal- 
ousy ;  anything  else  you  may  take  with  you.  And  when- 
you  begin  planting  your  literary  theories — your  noble  tenli- 
ments  that  are  the  product  of  refinement — into  that  course 
soil,  the  crop  is  merely  afi'ectation.  The  bully,  who  suddenly 
bursts  out  crying  when  he  hears  a  canary  is  a  mere  sham — 
unless  he  is  drunk,  when  he  would  probably  get  up  and 
strangle  the  canary.  Passion  in  the  rough  ?  Yes,  the  rough 
sometimes  has  a  good  deal  of  passion— when  he  kicks  his 
mother.  Thank  you  ;  but  before  I  go  and  try  to  paint  a 
picture  of  the  costermonger — with  a  pewter  pot  in  his  hand 
and  love  and  innocence  in  his  heart — I  shall  wait  to  see 
what  effect  a  course  of  lectures  on  limelight  will  have  on 
him." 

Ross  regarded  him  for  a  second. 

"  Ye're  a  deep  young  fellow,"  he  said,  *'"forall  your 
frank  face.  Or  is  it  pride  ?  I'm  afraid  the  young  lady  up 
there  and  you  don't  get  on  very  well  together." 

"  Oh,  I  think  she  means  to  be  very  civil  to  me.  I  think, 
from  little  suggestions,  that  she  has  been  talking  to  her 
aunt  about  sending  me  over  as  bailiff  to  an  estate  they  have 
at  Ban  try.  Well,  I  don't  wonder  at  it.  My  present  post 
is  rather  too  much  of  a  sinecure." 

"  Other  people  manage  to  live  on  sinecures  happily 
eneuch,"  said  Ross,  bluntly.  "  I  wish  to  Heaven  I  had 
half  a  dizzen  o'  them  ! " 

'*  And  then,"  continued  Fitzgerald,  with  some  telltale 
color  in  his  face,  "  the  other  people  about  that  house  are 
all  such  hard  working  people — I  mean  those  you  sometimes 
meet  by  chance — that  one  feels  such  an  idler.  I  do  believe 
at  this  minute,"  he  said,  in  desperation,  *'  if  they  were  to 
give  me  a  decent  salary  as  bailiff  at  that  farm,  I'd  take  it, 
and  have  done  with  literature.  I  can  enjoy  literature  with- 
out trying  to  make  any  ;  and  I  should  be  in  my  own  ele- 
ment over  there.     But  what  were  we  talking  about?"     H(r 


012  SIIANDON  BELLS. 

protenflecl  to  make  a  cast  back.  "  Oh  yes  ;  about  Hilton 
Clarke's  theories  about  women.  Well,  here  are  other  two 
women — these  Chetwynds — who,  I  am  sure,  are  perfectly 
honest  and  upright  and  believable.  My  experience  has  not 
been  very  great ;  I  can  scarcely  remember  my  mother,  and 
1  had  no  sisters.  But  most  of  the  women  I  have  been 
niore  or  less  acquainted  with  have  been,  as  it  seemed  to  me 
a  good  deal  better  and  more  honest  and  more  unselfish  than 
the  men  ;  and — and  m  short  you  wouldn't  be  inclined  to 
doubt  your  own  experiences  even  when  a  man  who  has 
seen  more  of  the  world  than  you  have  tries  to  make  you 
less  believing?  " 

*'  I  would  send  him  to  the  devil,"  said  Ross,  decisively. 
"Believe  in  the  honesty  of  men  and  women,  and  in  the  wise 
providence  and  justice  o' things,  as  long  as  ye  can;  and 
when  ye  can  not,  ])ut  it  down  to  your  personal  bad  luck, 
and  dinna  accuse  everybody  of  stealing  because  the  major- 
ity o'  the  folk  ye  liave  met  have  disappointed  ye.  The 
truth  is  ye  are  anxious  about  that  young  lass  in  Ireland." 

Fitzgerald  started,  and  was  inclined  to  be  angry.  But 
what  was  the  use  ?  His  friend  had  guessed  the  truth,  much 
as  Fitzgerald  had  tried  to  conceal  it  from  him,  and  also 
from  himself.     Yes,  he  was  anxious ;  it  had  come  to  that. 

"  Is  she  a  braw  lass  ?  " 

"  I  think  you  mean  handsome  ?  No,  she  is  not  imposing 
if  that  is  what  you  mean.  But  she  is  exceedingly  pretty. 
I  can  talk  to  you  about  her  with  impunity,  for  you  don't 
know  her  name.  She  is  very  pretty,  and  very  winning, 
and  tender-hearted,  and  clever  too.  Think  of  her  being 
content  to  wait  on  and  on  like  this,  while  I  am  flounderin*.; 
about  without  any  certain  prospects  whatever  !  " 

"  Content  to  wait !  "  exclaimed  Ross.  "  Goodness  me, 
what  would  be  the  worth  of  her  if  she  were  not  content  to 
wait !  A  fine  kind  of  lass  to  have  that  would  be  !  And  ye 
have  two  pounds  a  week  as  a  certainty,  with  constant  smali 
addeetions  ?  Get  her  over,  man,  and  marry  hei*.  Two 
pounds  a  week !  The  great  majority  of  the  human  race 
live  on  far  less ;  and  what  is  good  for  the  muckle  is  no  bad 
for  the  pickle." 

This  bold  and  sudden  challenge  startled  him ;  but  was 
not  the  wild  project  as  beautiful  as  it  was  Avild  ?  The 
thought  of  it!  What  if  Kitty  were  really  to  consent? 
They  could  take  a  couple  of  small  rooms  somewhere,  and 
work  and  wait  in  patience,  with  love  and  blessed  content 


SIIAiYDON  BELLS.  2 1 3 

their  constant  companions,  until  the  happier  time  came. 
Would  it  not  be  fine  in  after-life,  when  things  had  gone 
well  with  them,  to  be  able  to  talk  of  their  early  struggle, 
and  of  their  adventures  and  their  fears  and  hopes  ?  Kitty's 
letters  had  not  been  very  cheerful  of  late  :  might  not  this  sud- 
den challenge  deliver  her  from  the  bond  of  despondency? 

But  he  dared  not  make  so  fateful  a  proposal  without 
much  anxious  care  ;  and,  as  it  turned  out,  on  the  very 
next  svening  something  happened  that  promised  to  aid 
him  most  materially.  When  ho  had  got  through  his  ap- 
pointed hour,  and  had  risen  to  leave,  Mrs.  Chetwynd  said 
to  him — obviously  with  a  little  emb,arrassment : — 

"Mr.  Fitzgerald,  I — I  want  to  explain  something.  You 
know  you  are  on  such  friendly  terms  with  us — at  least  I 
hope  so — I  hope  you  feel  quite  at  home  in  the  liouse — it  is 
rather  difficult  to  speak  about  money  matters.  But  tlicy 
have  to  be  spoken  about ;  for  every  one  must  live,  I  sup- 
pose. And — and,  in  fact,  Mary  was  saying  that  a  great 
deal  more  of  your  time  was  being  occupied  than  appeared 
to  be  the  case " 

"Oh,  1  hope  you  won't  speak  of  it,"  said  he.  "My 
time  is  not  so  valuable." 

"  Everybody's  time  is  A^aluable,"  said  the  old  lady,  with 
a  smile,  "for  it  is  easy  to  make  it  so.  Mary  was  saying 
you  must  spend  a  great  deal  of  time  in  looking  over  these 
new  books " 

"  That  IS  a  pleasure  to  myself." 

"  Now,  Mr.  Fitzgerald,  is  it  fair  ?  I  have  a  frightful 
task  to  get  through  with,  and  you  won't  let  me  alone.  If 
mL\\  Scobell  were  in  England,  I  should  have  asked  him. 
]^[owe^i.er,  here  is  the  truth  ;  that  my  conscience  won't  allow 
me  to  occupy  so  much  of  your  time  on  the  present  terms, 
and  I  propose  to  make  a  difference.  If,"  said  she,  rather 
hesitatingly — "  if  you  would  kindly  take  that  envelope  with 
you,  you  will  find  in  it  the  arrears — a  small  sum,  but  my 
conscience  will  be  clear — and  now,  not  another  word — 
for  I've  got  through  with  it,  and  I  am  quite  happy.  Now 
good-night,  and  not  a  word." 

"  Not  of  thanks  ?  "  said  he. 

"  No  ;  good-night ;  go  away,"  said  the  old  lady,  with  a 
light  little  laugh  :  she  was  clearly  very  well  pleased  to  have 
got  it  over. 

In  this  open  and  unaddressed  envelope  he  found  a  check, 
drawn  out  in  Mary  Chetwynd's  clear  and  Drecise  hand  and 


2 1 4  -SYA-/  NDON  BEL LS. 

signed  by  her  aunt,  for  £65.  The  rapidest  of  calculations 
showed  him  what  this  meant.  He  was  to  jjave  two  hundred 
a  year,  then,  instead  of  one  !  The  vision  that  this  opened 
up  left  no  room  for  those  over-sensitive  perplexities  that  he 
liad  laid  before  his  friend  Ross.  His  heart  was  beating  too 
quickly.  The  question  was,  what  argument,  what  entrcjit- 
ies,  what  pretty  phrases,  would  bring  Kitty  to  him  from 
over  the  sea.  . 

He  walked  rapidly,  he  knew  not  whither.  The  darkness 
■was  pleasant.  Never  had  he  struggled  so  with  the  composi- 
tion of  any  leading  article  affecting  the  interests  of  Indin, 
or  China  or  Peru.  He  tried  to  meet  beforehand  every  possi- 
ble objection.  He  thought  of  all  the  nice  things  he  could 
say  to  win  her  consent.  At  what  hour  he  got  home  to  his 
iodgings  he  did  not  quite  know ;  but  that  important  letter 
was  yet  far  from  being  arranged. 

It  took  him,  indeed,  the  whole  night  to  write  it ;  destroy- 
ing numberless  copies  that  seemed  to  him  to  leave  a  loop- 
hole of  escape  here  or  there.  He  felt  that  Kitty's  letters 
liad  been  somewhat  cold  and  matter-of-fact  of  late ;  he  was 
afraid  she  might  judge  this  one  coldly;  he  had  to  make 
everything  safe,  so  that  she  should  feel  the  future  was  abso- 
lutely secure.  And  when  at  last  he  did  go  out  to  post  this 
letter  at  the  nearest  pillar  letter-box,  behold !  the  wan  gray 
light  of  daybreak  was  stealing  over  the  skies,  and  far  away 
there  was  the  rumble  of  the  first  of  the  carts. 

I  do  not  know  who  was  the  Postmaster-General  at  that 
precise  time,  but  have  no  doubt  that  when  Fitzgerald 
dropped  the  heavy  letter  under  the  metal  lid,  he  was  as 
impatient  with  him  as  Juliet  was  with  her  nurse. 

"  Love's  lieralds  should  be  thoughts, 
Which  ten  times  faster  glide  than  the  sun's  beams, 
Driving  back  shadows  over  low'ring  hills  : 
Therefore  do  nimble-pinioned  doves  draw  love, 
And  therefore  hath  the  wind-swift  Cupid  wings. 
Now  is  the  sun  upon  the  highmost  hill 
Of  this  day's  journey " 

"Well,  the  sun  was  not  yet  quite  so  high  ;  but  it  was 
slowly  spreading  abroad  its  beams,  and  the  world  of  Lon- 
don was  awaking.  Fitzgerald  was  in  no  humor  for  sleep  ; 
he  thought  he  would  rather  go  away  down  to  the  river  to 
have  a  look  at  a  little  green  and  white  house  there ;  and 
there  was  a  light  as  of  the  dawn  on  his  face. 


SHANDON  BELLS.  215 

CHAPTER  XX. 

SOME    CORRESPONDENCE. 

Yes  ;  there  was  no  doubt  of  it ;  during  the  months  that 
had  elapsed  since  his  hurried  visit  to  Cork,  Kitty's  letters 
had  grown  much  more  cold,  or  at  least,  much  more  reserved 
and  matter-of-fact,  while  now  and  again  there  was  a  tone 
of  disappointment  running  through  them  which  he  had 
striven  to  overlook  at  the  moment.  Now,  as  he  re-read 
them  with  this  glorious  prospect — this  near  and  shining 
future — before  him  he  souglit  for  reasonable  explanations 
and  excuses,  and  easily  found  them.  The  spring  had  been 
wet  and  boisterous,  and  Kitty's  spirits  were  readily  affected 
by  the  weather  and  its  discomforts.  Then  she  had  had  a 
good  deal  of  travelling ;  and  that  would  account  for  ^the 
curtness  of  some  of  the  notes,  Kitty  being  ordinarily  a 
most  profuse  letter-writer.  And  then  again  the  news  that 
he  had  had  it  in  his  power  to  send  her  was  not  of  the  most 
cheering  description,  though  he  had  tried  to  put  the  best 
face  possible  on  matters.  Altogether,  looking  over  these 
letters  again,  and  regarding  them  by  this  new  light,  he  could 
find  nothing  disquieting  in  them ;  on  the  contrary,  they 
were  quite  natural  in  the  circumstances  :  the  question  was, 
How  would  Kitty  write  now  ? 

He  could  not  doubt  how  she  would  answer  his  appeal. 
The  summer  was  coming  on,  with  all  its  beautiful  new  hopes, 
new  desires,  new  possibilities.  During  that  winter  Kitty 
had  again  and  again,  and  not  at  all  to  his  sorrow,  pretty 
plainly  hinted  that  she  was  dissatisfied  with  her  present 
way  of  living.  It  had  become  distressingly  monotonous. 
There  were  no  ambitious  hopes  to  lure  her  on.  Only  once 
had  she  expressed  herself  as  being  pleased  with  her  sur 
roundings ;  and  that  was  on  a  professional  visit  to  Dublin, 
where,  instead  of  having  to  go  to  the  usual  lodgings,  she 
had  been  the  guest,  along  with  Miss  Patience,  of  the  wife 
of  the  manager  of  a  theatre  there;  and  that  lady  had  in- 
troduced Kitty  to  a  number  of  people,  and  made  her  life  a 
little  more  cheerful  for  her  for  a  time.  Then  she  had  to 
return  to  the  provinces,  and  to  miserable  rooms,  and  the 
fatigues  of  travelling ;  and  as  the  weather  happened  to  bf 


SHANDON  BELLS,  217 

the  places  in  tlie  photographs  in  the  windows  ;  but  neither 
they,  nor  the  panorama,  nor  anything  else,  could  have  told 
me  of  the  charm  of  this  beautiful  neighborhood.  We  were 
out  last  night  in  a  boat ;  there  was  no  moon  ;  but  the  stars 
were  lovely.  We  rowed  to  Innisfallen  ;  and  I  sung  one  or 
two  songs — the  sound  was  so  strange  when  we  got  near  the 
island  !  I  was  wondering  whether  the  ghosts  in  the  Abbey 
would  hear.     What  a  beautiful  night  it  was ! 

"Of  course  you  are  asking  what  brought  me  here. 
Well,  dear  Willie,  I  have  had  a  great  deal  of  bother,  and 
some  hard  work  of  late  ;  and  I  thought  I  had  earned  a  little 
holiday  ;  and  everybody  said  we  ought  to  go  to  Killarney 
in  the  spring;  and  Miss  Patience  and  I  have  done  it  as 
cheaply  as  we  could.  Where  in  the  world  could  we  have 
come  to  for  such  perfect  peace  and  rest  ?  This  hotel  is 
nearly  empty  ;  when  we  went  to  Muckross  Abbey  and  the 
Tore  Cascade  and  all  round  there,  we  were  quite  by  our- 
selves, and  when  we  go  out  on  the  lake  there  are  no  tourists 
anywhere.  The  day  we  arrived,  however,  there  was  a  fear- 
ful tempest.  I  said  to  myself.  Goodness  gracious !  is  this 
Killarney  ?  I  thought  Killarney  was  always  quite  still,  with 
moonlight  on  it  (as  it  was  in  the  panorama).  The  wind 
and  the  rain  were  dreadful :  the  mountains  were  quite  black 
except  when  the  clouds  crossed  and  hid  them  ;  and  the 
waves  on  the  lake  smashed  on  the  rocks  at  Innisfallen,  and 
sprung  up  in  foam  just  like  the  sea.  But  now  everything 
is  quiet  and  lovely ;  and  I  feel  as  if  this  Avas  the  Vale  of 
Avoca  that  I  should  like  to  rest  in,  with  the  friends  I  love 
best ;  only  I  suppose  there  never  is  rest  like  that  for  every- 
body ;  trouble  is  the  policeman  that  steps  in  and  orders  you 
to  move  on. 

"  Dear  Willie,  I  feel  quite  afraid  to  begin  and  try  to  an- 
swer your  letter  ;  for  I  know  you  won't  understand  what  I 
mean  about  it.  I  entirely  agree  with  you  about  a  private 
life — it  has  been  the  Avish  of  my  heart  for  many  a  day  ;  I 
am  quite  tired  of  the  annoyances  of  my  public  one.  Peo- 
ple think  it  is  a  fine  easy  thing  to  earn  your  living  by  merely 
singing  songs ;  I  wish  they  knew  what  hard  work  and  un- 
certain work  it  is.  Of  course  one's  vanity  is  pleased  some- 
times, when  you  have  nice  things  said  to  you,  or  when  the 
audience  is  very  enthusiastic  ;  but  what  a  temporary  thing 
that  is  !  When  I  stayed  with  Mrs.  Milroy  in  Dublin  I  was 
quite  delighted  with  the  little  occupations  and  visits  and 
amusements  with  which  they  passed  the  time;  and  I  know 


218  SHANDON  BELLS. 

that  would  suit  rue ;  aud  as  for  your  suggestion  that  I 
might  some  day  regret  giving  up  this  kind  of  life,  you  might 
have  saved  yourself  all  the  arguing  against  it :  it  is  the 
last  thing,  I  tcnow^  that  will  ever  occur  to  me  ;  and  I  should 
be  ready  this  minute  to  give  it  up,  if  I  could  do  so  safely. 

"  People  never  do  get  what  they  want,  I  suppose  ;  and 
T  suppose  it  is  better  for  them  in  the  long-run.  And  for 
you  to  think,  just  now,  Avhen  you  are  making  a  path  for 
yourself  that  will  lead  to  future  fame,  of  hampering  your- 
self  in  the  way  you  propose — well,  I  can  understand  your 
dreaming  of  it,  for  you  were  always  so  romantic  and  strange 
in  your  notions,  but  I  have  got  worldly  wisdom  enough  for 
both  of  us,  and  I  can  see  what  a  pity  it  would  be.  When 
you  want  a  clear  way  for  your  genius,  you  tie  all  this  do- 
mestic anxiety  round  your  neck !  Consider  how  precarious 
you  would  be.  That  old  lady  might  die  at  any  moment, 
and  then — !  I  am  afraid,  dear  Willie,  that  your  literary 
prospects  by  themselves  wouldn't  warrant  you  in  doing  as 
you  propose  ;  and  do  you  know  I,  for  one,  am  not  so  sorry 
there  should  be  such  difficulty  and  hard  work,  for  if  there 
was  not,  wouldn't  everybody  be  at  it,  and  where  would  be 
the  glory  of  making  a  name  for  yourself,  if  everybody 
could  step  in  and  do  it  ?  I  know  you  distrust  your  powers. 
I  don't ;  and  I  should  think  myself  mean  and  unscrupulous 
if  I  allowed  my  private  wishes  to  interfere  with  your  future. 
I  know  some  day  you  will  have  reason  to  thank  me.  Was 
it  not  me  who  sent  you  away  from  that  miserable  little 
office  in  Cork  to  take  the  place  that  your  genius  entitles  you 
to  ?    I  as  good  as  said  : 

*  Go  where  the  glory  waits  thee, 
But  while  Fame  elates  thee, 

Oh  !  still  remember  me ! 
When  the  praise  thou  meetest 
To  thine  ear  is  sweetest, 

Oh  !  then  remember  me !  * 

I  know  you  always  laugh  at  my  poetry  ;  but  I  like  poetry 
that  one  can  understand,  that  has  common-sense  in  it ;  and 
there  is  common-sense  in  that.  I  expect  great  things  of 
you ;  and  so  would  the  world  if  it  knew  as  much  as  I  did ; 
and  it  seems  to  me  that,  with  gifts  such  as  yours,  you  have 
no  right  to  throw  up  your  career,  or  at  least  seriously  haul- 
er it,  for  tlie  mere  gratification  of  a  ))iece  of  roinancre. 
3Ut  that  was  always  like  you,  Willie.     You  look  at  thiu.!^>^ 


£ 


SHANDON  BELLS.  219 

m  sucn  a  strange  way.  You  don't  seem  to  value  things  as 
other  people  do;  and  you  don't  appear  to  consider  it  is 
your  duty  to  get  on  in  the  world,  and  make  money,  and  a 
security  for  your  old  age.  I  have  seen  a  good  deal  of  the 
world  ;  I  have  seen  what  money  can  do  ;  what  good  you 
can  do  with  it;  how  independent  it  makes  you.  I  believe 
if  it  had  not  been  for  me  you  would  have  kept  on  in  Cork, 
simply  because  you  had  the  chance  of  living  a  half-sailor, 
half-gamekeeper  life  at  Inisheen  ;  and  you  would  never  have 
thought  of  the  time  when  you  would  no  longer  be  able  to 
go  after  rock-pigeons.  And  so,  dear  Willie,  you  must  try 
and  be  a  little  less  romantic  in  the  mean  time,  and  do  jus- 
tice to  the  gifts  you  have  ;  and  by  and  by  you  will  thank 
me,  and  say  that  everything  has  been  for  the  best. 

"  Now  I  know  you  have  quite  misunderstood  me ;  and 
you  are  angry,  in  your  wild  way,  and  accuse  me  of  being 
mercenary — me  !  I  have  never  had  enough  money  to  know 
what  mercenariness  was.  And  of  course  you  are  impatient 
that  everything  can't  come  about  just  as  if  it  were  a  story^ 
book.  Alas  !•  I  wish  it  could,  and  everybody  be  satisfied ; 
but  there  is  always  trouble,  even  to  those  who  make  the 
strongest  fight  against  the  inclinations  of  their  heart,  and 
try  to  do  what  is  best  for  every  one  around  them. 
Just  imagine  me  lecturing  you  like  this!  And  yet  you 
know  dear  Willie,  that  you  are  too  poetical ;  and  so  I  must 
be  the  commonplace  person — even  here,  with  Killarney 
before  me.  There  was  a  dreadful  accident  to  the  coach  as 
we  were  coming.  There  is  a  steep  hill  some  miles  before 
you  get  here,  and  one  of  the  two  horses  fell,  and  the  force 
of  the  coach  dragged  it  along,  and  the  poor  beast's  knees 
were  horrible  tQ  look  at.  It  just  managed  to  Avalk  the  dis- 
tance, though  I  thought  every  moment  it  would  go  down. 
But  what  a  fine  thing  it  must  be  to  have  a  carriage  and 
one's  own  horses,  and  drive  all  through  these  beautiful 
places,  quite  at  your  leisure,  and  without  a  thought  for 
the  future !  Just  fancy  not  having  to  care  a  farthing 
whether  June  or  August  is  near  or  far  off ;  nothing  but  to 
enjoy  the  present  moment,  and  drive  from  one  hotel  to 
another,  irrespective  of  time  and  without  a  thought  about 
the  cost !  I  think  people  who  can  have  such  happiness  to 
themselves  ought  to  be  very  kind  to  other  people.  I  know 
I  should  try  to  be.  I  can  imagine  myself  driving  through 
the  country  like  that ;  and  if  there  was  any  trouble,  it  would 
be  the  thought  that  I  could  not  make  all  the  poor  people 


220  SHAADON  BELLS. 

one  might  meet  just  as  contented  as  one's  self.  One  might 
meet,  who  knows,  some  young  fellow  going  away  from  his 
sweetheart,  forced  by  fate^  and  very  much  troubled  about 
his  prospects ;  and  a  letter  of  introduction  or  something 
might  save  misery.  But  these  are  all  id4e  dreams  ;  and  one 
must  take  the  world  as  it  is. 

''  I  am  so  glad  that  that  kind  old  lady  has  again 
befriended  you ;  and  hope  that  something  substantial  and 
permanent  may  come  of  her  friendship  for  you  ;  but  even 
if  these  hopes  are  disappointed,  I  am  convinced  you  did 
right  in  going  away  to  London.  Genius  such  as  yours 
is  a  trust.  You  had  no  right  to  waste  your  time  fishing 
and  boating  and  shooting.  Even  if  it  were  to  be  decided 
by  fate  that  you  and  I  were  never  to  meet  again,  do  you 
not  think  I  should  watch  your  career,  of  M^hich  I  am  far 
more  certain  than  you  are  ?  Of  course  I  don't  say  that  success 
is  to  come  all  at  once.  I  do  believe  you  are  working 
your  best;  though  I  didn't  think  from  what  you 
say  that  that  Scotch  artist — I  thought  the  Scotch  were 
so  practical ! — does  you  any  good.  I  suppose  he  thinks  it 
would  be  romantic  to  live  in  a  garret:  and  if  I  was  a 
barefoot  lassie  perhaps  it  would  ;  but  now  again  you  will 
accuse  me  of  mercenariness  just  because  I  have  to  talk 
common  sense.  I  don't  believe  there's  anybody  in  the 
world  cares  less  for  money  than  I  do;  but  I  see  Avhat 
money  can  do,  and  how  it  gives  people  time  to  be  thought- 
ful and  kind  to  those  around  them ;  and  in  any  case  I  am 
not  going  to  be  the  one  to  wreck  such  a  career  as  you  have 
before  you,  Scotchman  or  no  Scotchman. 

'*I  have  been  so  much  occupied  here  that  I  forget 
whether  I  thanked  you  for  the  volume  of  political  speeches 
that  you  sent  Miss  Patience ;  but  at  all  events  I  was  asked, 
and  intended  to  do  so,  with  her  best  compliments.  The 
book  seems  to  be  highly  appreciated ;  she  has  scarcely 
stirred  out  since  we  came  here.  As  for  our  stay  here,  that 
is  quite  uncertain  ;  but  I  am  in  love  with  the  scenery  (it 
is  far  prettier  and  not  as  grand  or  wild  as  I  expected,  and 
you  kiiow  I  prefer  quietness  to  Alpine  terrors)  and  I  shall 
tear  myself  away  with  great  regret.  We  make  our  way  on 
to  Limerick,  where  I  have  four  concerts — the  old  mill-wheel 
again  after  this  paradise  !  So,  dear  Willie,  you  need  not 
write  here,  if  you  are  writing,  but  to  the  Post-office,  Lim- 
erick, and  I  shall  expect  a  letter  saying  that  you  know  I  am. 
aeting  in  the  best  kindness,  and  laying  myself  open  to  the 


SIIANDON  BELLS,  221 

charge  of  being  a  money-grasping  young  woman  (which  is 
absurd,  you  know,  for  if  I  was,  where  is  there  any  to  grasp  ?), 
when  all  I  want  is  to  act  prudently  for  you  and  me.  Good 
by,  dear  Willie.  If  there's  any  one  wishes  you  a  speedily 
secure  position  and  great  fame  and  reputation  such  as  you 
deserve,  there's  no  one  wishes  that  more  heartily  than, 

"  Your  affectionate        Kitty. 

P  S — Thursday  Morning,  Dearest  Willie,  this  letter 
does  read  so  business-like  that  I  am  ashamed  of  it ;  and  yet 
I  can't  burn  it,  and  have  to  go  over  all  the  arguments  again. 
It  quite  wore  out  my  small  brain  last  night ;  and  there 
were  such  difficulties,  too — such  interruptions — that  it 
seems  all  confused,  I  meant  it  to  be  so  kind,  and  it  reads 
like  a  schoolbook.  Never  mind  Willie  :  you  know  I  am 
not  mercenary ;  and  that  no  one  wishes  you  to  get  on  more 
heartily  than  I  do.  I  meant  the  letter  to  be  very  kind 
indeed  \  and  at  least  you  will  be  pleased  that  I  am  delighted 
with  Killarney.  Good  by.  The  morning  is  lovely  ;  and 
we  are  just  going  out  for  a  row." 

"  Going  out  for  a  row  ?  "  he  repeated  mechanically  to 
himself.  Who  were  going  out  for  a  row  ?  Miss  Patience, 
according  to  Kitty's  own  showing,  scarcely  stirred  out  of 
the  hotel  at  all.  And  what  were  they  doing  there  ?  How 
had  he  heard  nothing  about  it?  What  did  all  this  mean — 
about  the  trouble  of  the  Avorld,  and  the  sacrifices  of  one's 
inclinations,  and  a  future  for  him  of  which  she  was  to  be 
the  distant  spectator?  He  read  the  letter  over  again,  in  a 
bewildered  sort  of  way.  It  was  not  like  Kitty — it  was  not 
like  the  wilful,  petulant,  loving,  and  tea^jng  Kitty  at  all. 
It  is  true  that  her  letters  had  for  some  time  past  been 
reserved — occasionally  hurried  and  curt ;  but  here  was  a  long 
rambling  letter  laying  bare  all  her  thoughts,  and  it  did  not 
sound  as  if  it  was  Kitty  who  was  speaking.  And  was  she 
laying  bare  all  her  thoughts  ?  he  asked  himself.  Was  it  her 
great  regard  for  his  future  fame  that  caused  her  to  refuse  his 
appeal  ? — an  appeal  that  seemed  to  him  to  be  so  simple  and 
natural  and  opportune. 

Then  he  eagerly  grasped  at  the  notion  that  perhaps  his 
abrupt  proposal  had  startled  her.  This  was  but  maiden  coy- 
ness. She  had  been  alarmed  by  the  definite  request  that 
she  should  come  over  and  be  married,  and  occupy  these 
humble  apartments  until  a  more  suitable  dwelling  could  be 


222  SHANDON  BELLS. 

chosen.  These  rambling  arguments  of  hers  were  a  mere 
girlish  trick  of  fence.  Modesty  was  sheltering  itself  behind 
the  guise  of  prudence.  And  he  could  have  laughed  at 
Kitty's  imploring  him  to  believe  that  she  was  not  mercenary 
— as  if  it  were  likely  he  could  suspect  her  of  that. 

Still,  there  was  something  very  strange  and  disquieting 
in  the  tone  of  this  letter  ;  and  when  he  sat  down  to  answer, 
he  experienced  the  novel  sensation  of  being  afraid.  Afraid 
of  Kitty  ?  If  he  could  have  caught  her  by  both  hands,  he 
would  not  have  been  afraid.  But  that  was  the  mischief  of 
it — the  great  distance  between  them.  That  was  why  he 
was  afraid — afraid  of  the  misunderstanding  that  letters  cause. 
He  wrote  hurriedly ;  he  seemed  to  have  so  much  to  say ; 
and  wished  to  say  it  all  at  once ;  and,  moreover,  he  must 
needs  write  in  good  spirits  if  he  would  drive  away  her 
despondency. 

"  My  darling  Kitty, — I  have  received  your  extraor- 
dinary letter.  It  does  not  sound  as  if  you  had  written  it 
at  all.  Why  are  you  so  serious?  What  has  frightened 
you  ?  Are  you  the  same  Kitty  that,  when  I  first  came  to 
London,  used  to  write  every  day,  nearly,  *  Make  haste ; 
make  haste  :  for  I  love  you  so'?  And  now  there  is  not  a 
word  of  love  in  this  long  letter,  but  a  great  deal  of  down 
heartedness,  and  fear,  and  political  economy,  and  Benjamin 
Franklin  sort  of  wisdom.  And,  then,  my  pretty-eyed 
philosopher,  your  facts  are  a  little  askew.  You  accuse  me 
of  being  too  poetical ;  and  if  to  love  you  is  to  be  romantic 
and  poetical,  I  will  admit  the  charge.  But  if  you  mean 
that  I  allow  poetry  or  anything  else  to  interfere  with  my 
care  for  the  futu<|,  you  are  all  wrong.  Yon  don't  know 
how  rigidly  I've  saved  up  every  possible  penny  since  I 
came  to  London.  I  don't  go  taking  holidays  atKillarney ; 
when  I  have  to  go  for  a  journey,  it's  all  because  of  a  wicked 
young  woman  who  won't  be  reasonable  and  sensible,  and 
come  and  be  married  at  once.  And  really  and  seriously, 
Kitty,  what  havB  you  to  fear?  I  have  £110  saved;  and 
£200  a  year  is  quite  enough  to  make  a  start  with,  in  a 
quiet  way,  and  if  things  go  better,  won't  you  be  rather 
glad  in  after-life  that  you  and  I  were  together  during  the 
poorer  times  ?  You  talk  about  my  being  precarious  (your 
English,  Miss  Kitty,  has  not  been  improved  by  the  Killarney 
air),  but  is  not  everything  and  everybody  more  or  less  so  ? 
You  are  like  Miss  Patience,  thinking  that  literature  is  so 


SIIANDON  BELLS.  223 

precarious  a  profession  because  a  tile  might  fall  on  your 
head  from  a  roof.  ]^o  doubt  this  old  lady  might  die,  but  so 
might  you  or  I;  and  surely,  since  life  is  so  uncertain, 
common  sense  would  counsel  you  to  make  the  best  of  it 
while  you  may.  Life  is  not  such  a  very  long  thing ;  youth 
is  still  shorter  ;  and  surely  when  two  people  love  each  other, 
and  have  a  little  faith  in  the  future,  and  a  reasonable 
security  in  the  present,  even  Benjamin  Franklin,  Poor 
Richard,  Catharine  Romayne,  and  similar  philosophers 
might  admit  that  it  would  be  unwise  to  throw  away  a  cer- 
tain happiness  on  the  chance  of  some  good  to  come.  It 
seems  so  strange  to  have  to  talk  to  you  like  this,  Kitty, 
even  as  a  joke.  I  can  scarcely  believe  this  letter  of  yours 
to  be  serious.  Who  was  it  who  declared  that  she  could  live 
on  nothing ;  who  implored  me  never  to  leave  her  :  who 
asked  me  to  live  in  her  heart,  and  pay  no  rent  ?  And  all 
that  happened  little  more  than  a  year  ago.  What  has 
changed  her  so  in  so  short  a  time. 

"  I  know.  They  say  that  once  in  every  seven  years,  on 
a  beautiful  summer  morning  just  at  sunrise,  the  O'Donoghue 
of  the  Lakes  comes  down  from  his  magic  home  in  the 
mountains,  riding  a  white  horse,  and  accompanied  by 
fairies.  He  rides  across  Lough  Leane,  and  wherever  he 
goes  on  the  dry  land  all  his  old  possessions  and  splendor 
appear  again  ;  and  when  he  has  seen  that  everything  is 
right  he  sets  out  for  home  again.  Now  no  doubt  you  have 
heard  that,  if  you  have  courage  enough,  you  can  go  with 
him,  and  cross  Lough  Leane  dry-shod,  and  accompany  him 
to  his  home  in  the  mountains,  where,  before  bidding  you 
good-by,  he  will  present  you  with  part  of  his  buried  treas- 
ure. Have  I  found  you  out,  Miss  Kitty?  Are  you  watch- 
ing for  the  O'Donoghue  of  the  Lakes  ?  Is  that  why  your 
email  head  is  stuffed  with  'mercenariness? '  Are  you  so 
anxious  to  be  rich,  and  drive  through  the  country  with  a 
carriage  and  pair,  that  you  get  up  every  morning  at  that 
hotel  before  sunrise  and  wander  away  down  to  the  lake- 
side, and  look  across  and  watch  for  the  white  horse  and  its 
rider?  Is  that  the  peculiar  charm  you  have  found  in  Kil- 
larney  ?  And  of  course  the  want  of  sleep,  and  the  going 
about  so  much  alone,  and  the  witchery  of  the  whole  thing, 
have  dazed  you  a  little,  and  made  you  apprehensive,  so  that 
I  can  scarcely  believe  it  is  you  who  are  speaking  to  me. 

"  My  dearest  Kitty,  you  must  really  throw  aside  these 
unreasonable  fears — you,  who  used  to  be  so  fearless,  too  1 


224  SHAN  DON  LELLS. 

If  you  are  afraid  to  take  such  a  decisive  step  as  coniiiio^  to 
London  by  yourself,  I  will  come  over  and  fetcli  you.  1  ;iin 
entitled  to  a  long  holiday.  Dearest  Kitty,  how  would  it  do 
for  me  to  come  over  and  meet  you  at  Limerick,  and  stay 
there  long  enough  to  be  married,  and  go  back  over  the 
Killarney  route  ?  I  am  confident  I  could  take  you  to  beau- 
tiful places  you  are  not  likely  to  find  on  tlie  ordinary  tourist 
route.  Write — no,  telegraph — one  word, '  Yes  ' — that  can't 
take  up  much  of  your  time — and  I  will  come  over  at  once. 
And  then,  you  see,  as  one  must  be  practical  and  business- 
like in  order  to  please  you,  getting  married  in  that  quiet 
way  would  be  very  inexpensive  :  you  would  have  no  white 
silk  gown  to  buy,  and  I  should  have  no  lockets  to  get  for 
the  bridemaids.  Now,  Kitty,  take  heart  of  grace,  and  tele- 
graph at  once.  If  you  telegraph  from  Killarney,  I  will  go 
right  on  to  Limerick  and  wait  for  you  there.  Don't  think 
about  it;  do  it.  If  you  sit  down  and  begin  to  make  out 
all  sorts  of  calculations,  as  if  you  were  the  secretary  of  a 
life  insurance  company,  of  course  you  will  arrive  at  no  de- 
cision at  all,  but  only  plunge  yourself  in  gloom.  What  a 
trip  that  will  be,  if  you  will  only  say  '  Yes  !  '  If  you  went 
by  Bandon  and  Dunmanway,  we  will  come  back  by  Inchi- 
geelah  ;  and  of  course  we  shall  go  down  to  Inisheen  ;  and 
perhaps  to  the  stream  there,  some  moonlight  night,  just  to 
let  Don  Fierna  and  the  rest  of  them  know  that  you  had  not 
quite  forgotten.  You  have  not  quite  forgotten,  Kitty  ?  I 
had  the  date  engraved  on  the  ring  you  gave  me,  and  then  I 
grudged  the  expense,  for  it  was  useless.  There  are  some 
things  that  are  engraven  on  the  heart ;  they  become  a  part 
of  you ;  you  can  put  them  away  from  you  only  when  you 
put  life  away  ;  and  I  do  not  think  that  either  of  us  is  likely 
to  forget  the  vow  of  that  night. 

"  Well,  now,  Kitty,  the  inhuman  wretch  who  occupies 
the  quaint  small  house  by  the  river  that  I  told  you  of  still 
remains  in  it ;  I  often  take  a  turn  round  that  way  to  see  if 
there  is  not  a  board  up  ;  but  no,  the  wretched  limpet  still 
clings  to  his  shell.  Never  mind  ;  we  shall  have  plenty  ot 
time  to  walk  about  and  pick  out  a  comfortable  little  place 
for  ourselves ;  for,  you  see,  I  can  always  use  the  fine  morn- 
ings for  walking  out,  and  shift  on  my  work  to  the  time  of 
rain.  And  then,  when  we  give  ourselves  a  whole  holiday, 
Kitty,  there  is  no  end  to  the  beautiful,  quiet  places  one  can 
get  to  from  this  neighborhood.  I  have  explored  them  all  ; 
and  the  whole  time  I  was  thinking,  'I  know  Kitty  will  he 


Sl/JXDOiV  BELLS.  225 

charmed  with  tliis  plnce ;  and  I  am  certain  she  never  could 
liave  been  here  before.'  Scarcely  anybody  knows  what 
beautiful  sequestered  spots  there  are  in  Richmond  Park 
alone.  Then,  you  see,  Kitty,  by  taking  those  furnished 
rooms  to  begin  with,  you  will  be  able  to  fall  into  house- 
keeping ways  by  degrees  ;  and  we  shall  take  plenty  of  time 
to  choose  a  pretty  small  house,  and  put  things  into  it  just 
as  we  want  them.  You  will  be  surprised  at  the  knowledge 
I  have  acquired  of  the  prices  of  tables  and  chairs  and  car- 
pets ;  and  Ross — that  is  your  Scotch  friend — has  promised, 
xcJien  the  great  tim.e  comes,  to  present  you  with  a  tea-service 
of  old  black  Wedgwood  that  he  picked  up  somewhere  in 
Surrey,  and  that  is  about  the  only  thing  of  value  that  he 
possesses.  Just  fancy  your  sitting  in  state  at  your  own 
tea-table  in  your  own  house  !  '  Will  you  have  another  cup 
of  tea,  Mr.  Ross  ? '  '  No,  thank  you,  my  dear  Mrs.  Fitz- 
gerald, but  if  you  would  sing  another  of  those  Irish  songs, 
that  is  what  I  would  like  to  have.'  Then  you  go  to  the 
piano :  of  course  we  must  hire  a  piano  the  very  first  thing, 
for  you  are  not  going  to  forget  your  music.  Miss  Kitty, 
when  you  enter  upon  domestic  slavery.  And  what  about 
'  The  Minstrel  Boy  '  for  our  Scotchman  ?  Or  will  you  make 
him  cry  with  '  Silent,  oh,  Moyle?'  Or  do  you  think  he  will 
care  as  mucli  for  '  The  Bells  of  Shandon '  as  we  do  ?  I 
think  not.  He  does  not  know  certain  associations.  He 
cannot  recall  the  white  Sunday  mornings;  and  the  quietude 
of  tlie  country  walks ;  and  Kitty  declaring  tliat  she  should 
never  have  tlie  courage  to  marry  anybody,  and  that  her 
proper  role  in  life  was  to  be  an  old  maid. 

"  Come,  now,  Kitty !  You  have  a  tremendous  courage 
when  you  like.  Pull  yourself  together.  If  Miss  Patience 
is  preaching  political  economy,  tell  her  to  go  to  the  mis- 
chief. I  am  thinking  of  your  eyes  when  you  meet  me — at 
Limerick.  Will  you  be  shy  and  coquettish.  Or  will  you 
be  imperious  and  riding  the  high  horse  ?  1  know  you  can 
be  in  any  mood  you  choose ;  and  the  mood  I  would  have 
you  choose  is  that  of  the  Kitty  of  the  old,  beautiful,  love- 
sweetened  days,  not  this  timid,  fearing,  business-like  Kitty 
whom  I  don't  know  a  bit.  Who  wrote,  '  Just  tell  them 
there's  a  poor  girl  in  Ireland  who  is  breaking  her  heart  for 
your  sake?'  I  know,  whatever  troubles  you  may  be  think- 
ing of  now,  everything  will  look  quite  bright  and  hopeful 
when  I  get  hold  of  your  shoulders,  and  challenge  your  eyes 
to  do  anything  but  smils.     So  no  more  of  your  despon- 


226  SHANDON  BELLS. 

doncy,  you  pretty,  black-eyed,  tiny  sweetheart ;  but  one 
word,  and  the  expenditure  of  one  sliilling,  and  then  don't 
bothcu*  your  head  any  more  about  it  until  you  see  nie  at 
Limerick  Then  I  will  take  command  of  you,  and  be  re- 
sponsible for  you  ;  and  we  will  together  make  short  work  of 
your  economical  fears. 

"  This  from  one  who  knows  you  and  loves  you  far  too 
well  to  believe  in  your  want  of  courage ;  and  who  sends  no 
other  message,  or  kisses,  or  anything  of  the  kind — for  he  is 
bringing  them.  W.  F. 


He  went  out,  and  walked  rapidly  to  the  pillar  letter-box, 
aed  posted  the  letter ;  there  seemed  so  little  time  to  lose. 
And  then  he  walked  back  more  slowly,  wondering  if  he  had 
said  everything  likely  to  entice  Kitty  to  a  decision. 

Just  as  lie  was  entering  the  courtyard  the  postman 
came  along  with  the  second  morning  delivery,  and  he  had 
two  letters  for  Fitzgerald.  Master  Willie  took  them  with 
little  interest  (for  he  was  still  thinking  of  the  phrases  he 
had  used  in  the  appeal  sent  over  the  sea),  and  opened  them 
leisurely  as  he  was  going  up  the  stair.  And  yet  the  first  of 
these  read  oddly  enough  : — 

"  Dear  Mr.  Fitzgerald, — 1  wonder  if  you  could  spare 
me  a  few  minutes  to-morrow,  Wednesday,  evening,  before 
you  leave  the  house.  Or,  if  that  is  inconvenient,  any  other 
evening  will  do;  but  to-morrow  evening  I  am  sui^e  to  be  at 
liome.     I  only  want  a  few  minutes'  talk  with  you. 

"  Yours  faithfully, 

"Mary  Chetwynd." 

He  could  not  imagine  what  Miss  Chetwynd  could  have 
to  say  to  him ;  but  as  nothing  further  was  to  be  made  out 
of  the  letter,  he  put  it  in  his  pocket.  The  next  that  ha 
opened  was  written  on  the  note  paper  of  a  hotel  in  Venice. 

"  Dear  Fitz, — It  is  an  age  since  I  heard  anything  of 
you ;  and  I  have  seen  so  few  English  periodicals  that  I 
have  no  means  of  telling  how  you  are  getting  on.  Well,  I 
hope.  You  have  enthusiasm,  good  health,  and  an  insatia- 
ble thirst  for  work  :  Pactolus  will  flow  your  way  sooner  or 
later.  The  beast  of  a  stream  doesn't  flow  my  way  ;  quite 
the  reverse  ;  it  flies  at  my  approach ;  hence  these  tears. 
The  fact  is,  I  am  temporarily  very  hard  up,  and  awkwardly 
situated  as  well — I  can't  explain,  but  you  may  guess,  and 


SHAND ON  BELLS.  227 

so,  to  get  out  of  these  embarrassments,  I  have  taken  a 
liberty  which  I  know  you  won't  mind,  for  it  can't  cause  you 
any  inconvenience.  I  have  drawn  a  bill  on  you  at  three 
niontlis  for  £150  ;  and  if  you  would  have  the  good  nature 
to  accept  it  on  presentation,  you  will  do  me  a  great  service  ; 
and  of  course  you  will  suffer  no  harm,  for  it  will  be  taken 
up  long  before  that.  It  is  merely  the  use  of  your  signature 
for  a  few  weeks  tliat  I  want ;  and  I  sha'n't  forget  your 
friendliness.;  on  connait  Vami  au  besoin. 

"  How  is  the  Lady  Irmingarde,  and  how  are  the  little 
ringlets  round  her  ears?  Be  a  good  boy,  and  marry  the 
young  damsel  decently  and  honorably  before  the  fides 
inidica  — I  do  not  write  Punica.,  and  mean  no  such  thing 
— begins  to  show  the  strain  of  time  and  distance  ;  and  then 
you  will  settle  down  into  pro])er  domestic  ways,  and  run  no 
i-isk  of  getting  into  scrapes  either  at  home  or  abroad.  I 
hope  Gifford  gives  you  plenty  to  do  ;  two  guineas  are  much 
too  little ;  but  I  suppose  you  make  it  help.  ScobeU  has 
turned  out  to  be  a  mean  fellow;  I  always  suspected  guinea- 
pigs. 

"Yours  faithfully, 

"Hilton  Claeke." 

He  went  down  the  steps  again,  and  knocked  at  Ross's 
door. 

"  Come  in." 

He  entered,  and  found  the  Scotchman  smoking  an  after- 
breakfast  pipe,  seated  opposite  a  picture,  and  staring  at  it, 
but  with  neither  brushes  nor  palette  in  his  hand. 

"  There  !  "  said  Fitzgerald,  triumphantly  handing  him 
the  letter.     "  Didn't  I  tell  you  so  ?  " 

Ross  read  the  letter  through  deliberately,  and  handed  it 
back. 

"  Well  ?  "  said  he.  "  I  always  thought  him  a  scoundrel. 
Now  I  think  him  nn   impudent  scoundrel.     What  more  ?  " 

"  I  tell  you  he  is  nothing  of  the  kind  !  "  said  Fitzgerald, 
indignantly.  "Don't  you  see  from  that  letter  that  he  does 
not  think  he  has  done  me  any  injury?  I  told  you  so.  I 
told  you  there  were  people  who  otherwise  might  be  admira- 
ble enough,  but  who  simply  wanted  that  sixth  sense  about 
money  matters — " 

"  That  sixth  sense  !  "  said  Ross,  angrily.  "  And  did  not 
I  tell  you  not  to  go  and  confuse  things  by  calling  common 
honestv  a  sixth  sense?      If  a  scoundrel  in  the  street  picks 


228  SHANDON  BELLS. 

my  pocket,  I  do  not  think  about  any  sixth  sense ;  I  give 
him  into  the  hands  of  the  nearest  policeman." 

"  But  you  Scotchmen  are  too  literal,  and  so  exacting. 
You  won't  believe  in  a  man  having  any  virtues,  unless  he 
has  them  all.  Now  this  man  was  exceedingly  good- 
natured  ;  he  was  very  friendly  to  me  ;  I  am  certain  he  does 
not  think  at  this  minute  that  he  did  me  any  wrong ;  he 
simply  has  no  conscientiousness  on  that  one  point — " 

•'  It's  a  want  of  conscientiousness  that  has  landed  many 
a  poor  wretch  in  gaol  who  had  far  greater  excuses  than  that 
idling,  selfish  creature,"  said  John  Ross.  "  Man,  I  thought 
he  had  opened  your  een.  I  thought  it  was  the  one  good 
turn  lie  had  done  ye.  I  thought  he  had  given  ye  a  lesson. 
And  now,  I  suppose,  ye'll  go  and  sign  this  bill ;  and  you'll 
believe  he'll  pay  it ;  and  the  end  will  be — ten  pounds  to 
one  is  the  bet  I  will  put  on  it — I'm  saying  I  will  bet  ten 
pounds  to  five  shillings — that  not  one  farthing  of  that 
money  will  come  out  of  anybody's  pocket  but  your  own,  if 
ye  put  your  name  on  the  back  of  the  paper." 

He  knocked  the  ashes  out  of  his  pipe,  and  continued  still 
more  angrily, — 

*'  Man,  ye  do  not  deserve  to  have  a  young  lass  waiting 
lor  ye — away  over  there  in  Ireland  waiting  for  ye — and 
you  to  talk  about  throwing  away  your  money  on  a  scoun- 
drel like  that " 

"But  wait  a  minute,  Ross;  I'm  not  going  to  do  any- 
thing of  the  kind.  I  would  not  accept  a  bill,  or  back  it — ■ 
the  fact  is,  I  don't  know  what  the  2>roper  phrase  is — for 
any  human  being.  I've  seen  the  results  of  it  over  in  our 
district ;  the  Coursing  Club  showed  me  that.  And  indeed," 
added  Fitzgerald,  going  forward  to  look  at  the  picture,  "  I 
may  soon  have  need  of  all  the  money  I  can  get.  There  is 
just  a — a  possibility  of  my  setting  up  house,  in  a  small  way, 
by  and  by." 

"  Ay  ?  Well,  that's  better  news.  That's  sensible.  But 
don't  turn  the  mill  too  hard.  You  were  at  work  early  this 
morning." 

"  At  work  ? "  said  Fitzgerald,  staring.  "  I  have  not 
been  at  work  at  all.  I  have  not  had  any  breakfast  yet,  by 
the  way." 

"  Then  what  was  all  that  stamping  up  and  down  for?  I 
thought  ye  were  hammering  out  an  epic  poem." 

"  Oh,"  said  Fitzgerald,  vaguely,  remembering  that  he 


SIIANDON  BELLS,  229 

might  have  paced  up  and  down  the  room  in  his  eagerness 
to  get  persuasive  plirases.     "I  was  only  writing  a  letter." 

"It  must  have  been  a  terrible  business,"  said  the  other, 
grimly. 

"  So  it  is,"  said  Fitzgerald,  perhaps  a  trifle  absently — 
•'to  convince  one  who  is  at  a  great  distance  from  you,  in  a 
letter.     It  is  difficult  and  disheartening  at  times." 

Koss  glanced  at  him  keenly. 

"  Things  are  not  going  quite  right,  then  ?  "  said  he. 

"  Oh  yes,"  answered  Fitzgerald,  with  a  forced  cheerful- 
ness. "  Oh  yes.  Quite  right.  Oh  yes,  I  think  everytliing 
is  going  quite  right ;  and  by  and  by  I  hope  you  will  have 
the  opportunity  for  presenting  the  Wedgwood  tea-cups 
with  a  pretty  speech.  Of  course  letter-writing  is  a  round- 
about kind  of  way  of  arranging  anything;  it  is  difficult  to 
expLain,  and  to  persuade ;  and  one  is  so  apt  to  take  wrong 
impressions  from  a  letter.  Especially  a  girl,  you  see,  who 
is  nervous  and  anxious,  and  afraid  to  trust  her  own  judg- 
ment in  taking  a  decided  step.  Any  one  can  understand 
that.  Then — tlien — then  it  is  very  hard  and  difficult  to 
write,  you  see  ;  for  if  you  are  too  serious,  she  may  think 
you  are  alarmed,  and  she  may  prefer  the  safety  of  remain- 
ing as  she  is;  and  again,  if  you  are  too  cheerful  in  trying  to 
raise  her  spirits,  she  may  think  that  the  immediate  necessity 
for  coming  to  a  decision  cannot  possibly  be  near.  It  is  so 
much  better  to  see  the — the  person.  But  this  time,  Ross — 
I  don't  mind  telling  you — I  have  made  a  very  definite  pro- 
posal. I  should  not  wonder  if  I  were  to  leave  London  this 
very  week — and  come  back  with  a  wife." 

"  Good  hick  to  ye,  then  !  Now  I  can  understand  there's 
no  fear  o'  your  letting  that  fellow  have  any  more  o'  your 
money." 

"  Of  course,"  said  Fitzgerald,  handing  him  the  other  let- 
ter, "  that  may  have  something  to  do  wath  it." 

Ross  glanced  over  Miss  Chetwynd's  brief  note. 

''  Whatever  the  matter  is,  it  is  important,"  said  Fitz- 
gerald. "  She  has  never  asked  me  to  see  her.  like  that  be- 
fore. Perhaps  they  are  tired  of  the  present  arrangement. 
Perhaps  they  think  it  costs  too  much  ;  or  they  may  want  to 
have  some  one  else.  Well,  well,"  said  he,  more  cheerfully, 
"  if  it  is  so,  let  it  be  so.  One  can  live  somehow.  1  am  not 
going  to  break  my  heart  about  that." 

"Are  ye  coming  out  for  a  stroll,  then?" 

"Indeed   no.     I   am  going  to  get  some  breakfast;   and 


230  SHANDON  BELLS. 

then  set  to  work  on  another  article  on  the  Irish  Ballads. 
It's  wonderful  with  what  heart  you  work  when  you  know 
the  work  is  going  to  be  paid  for." 

"  It's  no  a  common  experience  wi'  me,"  said  Ross, 
dryly. 

Fitzgerald  was  whistling  to  himself  as  he  went  up  the 
steps  again.  It  was  not  the  possibility  of  his  losing  that 
chief  means  of  livelihood  that  could  daunt  him.  Now  his 
mind  was  full  of  far  other  concerns ;  and  he  was  forcing 
himself  to  believe  the  best.  When  was  the  white  day  to 
come  ?  At  Limerick,  at  Inchigeelah,  on  the  Blackwater,  on 
the  Shannon,  he  and  she  together  would  think  but  little  of 
what  had  happened  or  might  happen  in  London.  Might 
tliey  not  find  a  four-leaved  shamrock  somewhere  in  the  still 
summer  woods? 

He  worked  away  at  this  essay  on  the  Irish  Ballads  with 
great  apparent  cheerfulness.  When  he  stamped  up  and 
down,  as  was  his  wont,  sometimes  he  hummed  the  air  of 
one  or  other  of  the  old  songs  he  was  transcribing.  But  when 
he  came  to  "  Kathleen  O'More  *' — *'  My  own'little  Kath- 
leen, ni-y  poor  little  Kathleen,  my  Kathleen  O'More  '* — he 
did  not  get  on  so  quickly.  Perhaps  tliere  was  some  chance 
association — or  the  bit  of  likeness  between  the  names;  but 
it  seemed  difficult  to  him  to  copy  these  lines.  And  at  last 
the  pen  was  pushed  aside,  and  his  head  fell  forward  on  his 
clasped  hands. 

Why  was  Kitty  at  Killarney ;  and  why  was  she  so  cold, 
and  speaking  in  a  voice  that  seemed  far  away  and  strange, 
and  not  close,  and  tender,  and  familiar  as  in  the  old  and 
happy  time  ?     She  could  not  have  forgotten  Inisheen  ! 


CHAPTER  XXI. 

IMAGININGS. 


It  was  without  concern  or  apprehension  of  any  kind 
that  he  went  up  on  this  evening  to  Hyde  Park  Gardens.  He 
cared  not  what  might  happen  in  that  direction.  He  was 
scarcely  thinking  of  it. 


SHANDON  BELLS.  231 

As  usual  on  reaching  the  house  he  left  his  hat  and  coat 
in  the  hall,  and  carried  his  bundle  of  books  and  newspapers 
upstairs  to  the  drawing-room  ;  but,  to  his  surprise,  found  no 
one  there.  So  he  deposited  the  literature  on  the  table,  and 
went  and  stood  before  the  fire — an  institution  retained  in 
this  house,  for  the  mere  sake  of  cheerfulness,  long  after  the 
early  summer  warmth  had  set  in — and  stared  into  the  shift- 
ing and  lliciiering  lights  as  if  he  could  find  something  bo- 
hind  them.     There  was  an  absolute  silence  in  the  room. 

Then  a  slight  noise  startled  him  from  his  reverie,  and, 
turning,  he  found  Mary  Chetwynd  approaching  him,  with  a 
pleasant  smile  on  her  face. 

"  Good-evening,  Mr.  Fitzgerald,"  said  the  tall  young 
lady  with  the  pretty  head  and  the  clear  eyes. 

"  Good-evening,"  said  he,  very  respectfully. 

"  Auntie's  compliments,  and  she  is  very  sorry  she  can't 
see  you  this  evening.  She  has  caught  a  bad  cold,  and  the 
doctor  has  ordered  her  to  keep  to  her  room  for  a  couple  of 
days.     Won't  you  sit  down  ?  " 

As  Miss  Chetwynd  gave  him  this  invitation,  she  herself 
passed  over  to  an  easy-chair  near  the  fire.  What  perfect 
self-possession  she  had  !  Everything  she  did  or  said  seemed 
to  come  to  her  so  simply  and  naturally !  When  he  ob- 
served this  quiet  and  serious  dignity  and  grace  of  manner, 
he  could  not  but  think  of  Kitty's  will-o'-the-wisp  flashes  of 
petulance,  and  affection,  and  coyness ;  but  it  was  with  no 
conscious  desire  to  draw  any  comparison  Kitty  was 
to  him  the  one  woman  in  the  world ;  there  was  "none  like 
her,  none." 

"  I  hope  it  is  nothing  serious  ?  "  said  he. 

"  Oh  dear  no.  Not  in  the  least.  In  fact,  I  am  wicked 
enough  to  look  on  it  as  opportune,  for  now  I  can  speak  to 
you  freely  for  a  few  minutes,  if  you  will  give  me  so  much 
of  your  time  ;  and  I  must  tell  you  that  I  have  a  great  favor 
to  ask  of  you,  and  that  I  am  rather  frightened  that  I  may 
not  put  my  petition  before  you  properly." 

She  did  not  look  friglitened.  She  spoke  pleasantly  ;  and 
there  was  a  sort  of  smile  in  her  eyes. 

"  Perhaps  1  may  be  able  to  spare  you  some  embarrass- 
ment. Miss  Chetwynd,"  said  he,  "  if  I  guess  wkat  you  want 
to  say — " 

*'  I  don't  think  you  could  do  that,  exactly,"  was  the 
answer. 

^'  Only  this,"   he  said  with  indifference :  "  if  you  havo 


i:n-2  SHANDON  BELLS, 

any  friend  yon  wish  to  put  into  my  position  here,  I  hope 
you  won't  think  twice  about  saying  so " 

"Oh,  but  tlint  is  not  it  at  all,"  she  said,  promptly. 
"  Who  could  fill  your  position  ?  Who  could  give  dear  old 
auntie  that  interest  in  everyday  life  that  seemed  to  be 
going  away  from  her  altogether?  Indeed,  Mr.  Fitzgerald, 
I  am  very  grateful  to  you — we  all  are.  You  have  made  my 
aunt  quite  chatty  and  talkative  again  ;  and  what  she  taika 
most  about  is  yourself,  and  your  writings,  aud  your  friend 
the  Scotch  artist.     Oh,  that  would  never  do." 

At  another  time  Fitzgerald  would  have  been  glad 
enough  to  hear  this  frank  and  kindly  speech  ;  for  he  had 
not  guessed  that  this  was  the  light  in  which  she  regarded 
the  situation.  But  on  this  evening,  somehow,  his  thoughts 
were  elsewhere  ;  he  was  indiifei-ent  as  to  what  might  hap- 
pen to  him  witli  regard  to  this  post  of  his;  there  was  a 
weight  on  his  heart — he  knew  not  why. 

"  You  have  often  heard  auntie  speak  of  Boat  of 
Gari-y  ?  " 

"Yes,"  said  Fitzgerald,  with  a  sudden  awakening  of 
interest.  For  now  she  was  three  hundred  miles  and  more 
nearer  his  thoughts. 

"  That  is  what  I  want  to  speak  to  you  about  then  ;  and  I 
shall  have  to  make  some  explanations  before  I  put  my  re- 
quest bc^fore  you.  No  doubt  you  know  that  auntie,  who  is 
generosity  itself,  made  a  present  of  the  whole  place,  just  as 
it  stood,  horses  and  carriages  and  so  forth — everything,  in- 
deed— to  my  poor  brother." 

"Oh,  yes,  I  know  that,"  said  Fitzgerald,  who  had  heard 
a  good  deal  about  this  place  on  Bantry  Bay  from  one  source 
or  another,  and  had  even  imbibed  the  preposterous  notion 
that  Miss  Chetwynd  had  wanted  to  turn  him  into  a  bailiff, 
or  steward,  or  something  of  the  kind. 

"Fortunately  my  poor  brotlier  was  pretty  well  off,"  she 
continued,  "  and  so  he  coidd  keep  up  the  place ;  though 
hunting  was  his  favorite  amusement,  and  he  always  spent 
the  winter  in  England.  But  the  summer  and  autumn  he 
usually  spent  at  Boat  of  Garry ;  and  sometimes  auntie  and 
I  went  over  and  stayed  for  a  while.  Those  were  very  happy 
days  for  the  dear  old  lady;  for  she  quite  worshipped  her 
boy,  as  she  called  him,  and  she  was  so  proud  to  see  him  go 
about  over  his  own  place.  Her  kindness  to  him  was  beyond 
anything  you  can  imagine.  I  don't  know  whether  she  has 
ever  told  you,  but  she  is  dreadfully  afraid  of  the  ssa " 


SNA  ND  ON  B  ELLS,  233 

*' I  guessed  as  much  from  one  or  two  things  she  hjis 
said,"  Fitzgerald  answered. 

"  I  think  she  wns  nearly  drowned  when  a  girl,  or  some- 
thing like  that.  However,  s'he  detests  being  on  the  water 
And  yet  she  went  and  bought  a  small  steam  launch  foi 
Frank — for  the  place  is  rather  out  of  the  way;  and  she  used 
to  control  her  nerves  and  go  on  board  that  detestable  boat 
— yes,  and  drag  me  too — and  pretend  to  be  quite  delighted 
when  we  went  roaring  and  puffing  through  the  beautiful 
quiet  scenery  up  by  Glengariff,  or  darted  about  Bearhaven, 
threatening  collisions  on  every  hand.  What  I  thought  of 
these  excursions  I  need  not  tell  you " 

'*  I  don't  know  much  about  steam-launohes,  but  I  should 
think  ladies  would  not  care  much  for  them." 

That  was  what  he  said  ;  what  he  was  thinking  of  was 
Glengariff.  Had  Kitty  and  Miss  Patience  passed  that  way  ? 
Were  the  roses  out  in  the  hedgerows  yet?  Had  they 
walked  along  the  shore  in  the  twilight?  Ilad  she  tried  the 
piano  in  the  drawing-room  later  on  ?  Did  the  people  know 
who  she  was  ?  Had  she'sungfor  them?  Why  had  she  not 
.*-ritten  ? 

"Then  after  tlie — the  dreadful  accident,"  said  Miss 
Chetwynd — and  for  a  moment  she  looked  aside  somewhat 
— "  you  have  heard  about  that  too,  I  suppose,  when  poor 
Frank  was  taken  from  us — I  thought  auntie  would  never 
recover.  Her  interest  in  life  seemed  to  be  couipletely  gone. 
But  what  she  insisted  on  was  that  Boat  of  Garry  should  be 
left  exactly  as  my  poor  brother  had  left  it.  Nothing  was  to 
be  touched.  You  see,  the  property  had  reverted  to  her  ; 
and  she  could  not  bear  the  idea  of  going  there  ;  and  still 
less  the  idea  of  selling  it ;  and  so  she  said  it  should  remain 
exactly  as  Frank  left  it.  And  so  it  has  remained,  from  that 
day  to  this." 

She  heaved  a  little  sigh. 

"  That  is  the  sad  part  of  the  story.  Perhaps  you  know 
most  of  it.  And  now  I  come  to  the  request  I  have  to  make 
of  you,  Mr.  Fitzgerald,  and  it  is  a  very  plain  and  unsenti- 
mental one.  I  Really  think  it  a  pity  that  a  property  like 
that  should  be  allowed  to  remain  absolutely  useless ;  and 
I  am  not  sure  that  auntie  would  not  think  so  also,  if  some 
change  could  be  made  gradually.  I  don't  actually  wish 
that  she  should  sell  the  place,  for  it  has  been  a  long  time  in 
the  possession  of  her  side  of  the  family;  besides,  it  has 
associations  for  both  of  us.     It  is  a  long  time  now  since  my 


234  SHANDON  BELLS. 

poor  brother  was  killed ;  and — and,  if  I  may  hint  as  much 
again — since  my  aunt  made  your  acquaintance  she  has  been 
much  more  like  her  former  self,  and  less  given  to  that 
moping  she  gave  way  to  for  a  time.  Now  don't  you  your- 
self think  it  a  pity  that  a  place  like  that  over  at  Bantry 
should  be  allowed  to  exist  without  being  of  use  to  a  single 
soul  ?  " 

"It  does  seem  so,"  said  Fitzgerald.  *'But  does  no  one 
occupy  it  ?  " 

"No;  that  is  the  absurdity  of  it — well,  why  should  I 
call  it  an  absurdity  when  it  was  only  a  testimony  to  the 
poor  old  lady's  grief  ?  No  one  occupies  it.  We  have  to 
pay — at  least  my  aunt  pays — for  keeping  up  the  whole 
establishment ;  and  all  that  we  get  from  it  is  a  hamper  of 
game  now  and  again  in  the  autumn,  or  a  salmon.  There 
tlie  whole  place  is — horses,  a  coachman,  a  gamekeeper,  a 
yachtsman,  and  two  woman-servants  ;  and  I  suppose  the 
only  person  who  makes  any  use  of  the  j^lace  is  Mr.  McGee, 
the  solicitor  in  Bantry,  for  when  he  goes  round  to  pay  the 
wages,  and  that,  I  suppose  he  lias  some  shooting,  or  a  sail 
in  the  steam-launch.  I  proposed  some  time  ago  to  my  aunt 
that  she  should  at  least  bring  the  horses  and  carriages  to 
London  ;  but  when  poor  old  auntie  said  nothing  at  all,  but 
only  turned  away  to  hide  the  tears  in  her  eyes,  what  further 
could  I  urge?  You  see,  they  were  his  horses.  He  was 
proud  of  them.  So  with  the  steam-launch.  She  would  not 
hear  of  its  being  sold.  In  fact,  for  a  long  time  any  refer- 
ence to  the  place  was  so  distressing  to  her  that  I  did  not 
even  mention  it,  except  when  I  had  to  draw  out  a  check  for 
Mr.  McGee,  and  then  it  was  simply,  'Auntie  dear,  Mr. 
McGee  wants  so  much.'  You  may  think  all  this  an  absurd 
piece  of  sentiment ;  perhaps  it  is  ;  but  then,  you  see,  I  am 
Frank's  sister,  and  I  know  how  kind  my  aunt  was  to  him : 
and  if  she  has  still  this  feeling  about  preserving  intact  what 
belonged  to  him,  I  don't  find  it  altogether  ridiculous." 

"I  hope  not,"  said  I'itzgerald,  gently.  He  thought  she 
spoke  very  prettily  about  "his  matter.  He  should  not  have 
thought  she  had  so  much  sympathy. 

"  But  now,"  she  said — "  now  that  time  has  gone  by,  and 
auntie  seems  a  little  more  cheerful,  I  think  some  effort 
should  be  made  to  get  some  good  out  of  the  place.  I  don't 
know  that  I  am  very  penurious,  but  1  assure  you  I  do 
grudge  to  have  to  draw  out  checks  to  keep  up  a  perfectly 
useless  place  like  that.    Perhaps  it  is  because  I  sec  a  good 


Sl/ANDO^V  BELLS.\^n^j  ,  ^^ 

deal  of  want  and  trouble  and  misery  that  my  conscience 
rebels  against  throwing  away  money  lil^  that." 

"  Surely  you  are  quite  right,"  said  Fitzgerald,  though  he 
did  not  quite  know  why  he  should  be  appealed  to.  "  If 
Mrs.  Chetwynd  does  not  wish  to  sell  the  place,  and  if  it 
would  be  painful  for  her  to  go  and  live  in  it,  why  might  she 
not  let  it  ?  If  the  shooting  is  fair,  it  ought  to  let.  The 
neighborhood  is  pretty  enough." 

"  That  is  what  I  tliink  too,"  said  Mary  Chetwynd,  with 
that  placid,  intelligent  smile  of  hers.  "But  the  only  per- 
son who  could  induce  her  to  let  the  place,  and  so  save  all 
this  expense,  is  yourself,  Mr.  Fitzgerald ;  and  now  you  know 
why  I  have  ventured  to  ask  you  to  do  me  a  great  favor." 

"  I  ?     W  hat  could  I  do  about  it  ?  "  he  exclaimed. 

"  If  I  were  to  go  now  and  ask  auntie  to  let  Boat  of 
Garry,"  said  Miss  Chetwynd,  "  she  would  think  me  very 
cruel  and  hard-hearted.  The  idea  of  turning  in  a  stranger 
to  succeed  to  poor  Frank's  dog-cart,  and  his  gun-room,  and 
the  little  cabin  in  the  steam-yacht — that  would  be  quite 
terrible  to  her.  But  she  might  get  accustomed  to  the  idea. 
She  would  not  mind  your  going  over  and  occupying  the 
place.  She  has  a  great  regard  for  you.  You  are  about 
Frank's  age ;  you  know  about  sliooting :  it  would  seem 
natural  enough  to  her  that  you  should  go  over  and  live  at 
Boat  of  G»rry  for  a  time.  That  once  done,  the  rest  would 
be  easy.  There  would  be  no  difficulty  about  persuading  her 
to  let  it  next  year  to  one  or  other  of  our  friends — some  of 
the  scientifics,  as  she  calls  them,  are  very  fond  of  shooting. 
I  know  I  am  asking  a  great  deal,"  she  continued,  quickly, 
for  she  saw  that  he  looked  rather  astonished.  "You  are 
making  your  way  in  literature,  and  tliis  looks  as  if  you 
might  be  taken  away  from  that  for  a  considerable  time. 
But  would  it  be  so  ?  I  can  not  imagine  any  place  better 
fitted  for  literary  work,  unless,  indeed,  you  found  it  really 
too  solitary  ;  and  then  you  could  send  across  to  Bantry,  and 
you  may  be  sure  that  Mr.  McGee,  who  is  a  sporting  char- 
acter, would  be  only  too  glad  to  join  you.  Then,  again — 
you  see,  Mr.  Fitzgerald,"  she  said,  with  a  laugh,  "  I  have  to 
begin  by  persuading  you,  and  if  I  fail  with  you,  I  am  done 
altogether — you  would  have  the  kind  of  holiday  that  would 
just  suit  you,  according  to  all  accounts.  You  would  have 
fishing,  shooting,  and  boating,  in  a  sort  of  country  that  you 
are  familiar  with.    You  have  been  very  close  at  work,  I 


23G  SHAXDON  BELLS. 

should   judge,    since   you   came   to   London.      You  have 
scarcely  ever  been  out  of  London." 

"  But,"  said  he,  in  rather  a  bewildered  way,  "  do  you 
mean  tliis  ?  Is  it  an  actual  proposal — that  1  should  go  to 
Ireland  now?" 

"  Oh  no,  not  at  all,"  she  said  pleasantly.  "It  is  only  a 
project  of  mine.  My  prayer  to  you  is  that  if  auntie  should 
suggest  your  going  over  to  Ireland,  and  taking  your  holi- 
day in  that  way,  you  won't  refuse.  I  have  put  the  whole 
situation  of  affairs  before  you  ;  and  if  you  cared  to  take 
your  holiday  that  way,  it  would  be,  as  you  see,  conferring 
a  great  obligation  on  us,  and  on  me  especially,  for  you 
would  be  helping  me  to  carry  out  my  plan." 

It  was  a  prospect  that  ought  to  have  been  alluring 
enough  to  a  young  man  of  his  habits  and  occupations. 
But  he  could  not  tliink  of  that  now.  There  was  something 
of  far  greater  import  to  him  and  his  future  occupying  his 
thoughts. 

"  You  mean  this  year  ?  "  he  says.     *'  Now  ?  " 

"  I  am  not  sure  about  *  now,'  "  she  said.  "  Well,  say 
'  now,'  or  as  soon  as  I  can  get  my  aunt  coaxed  to  make  the 
The  salmon-fishing  has  begun,  has  it  not?" 
I  am  sorry,"  said  he,  rather  breathlessly,  "  but- — but  I 
may  be  called  away  to  Ireland  on  important  affairs  within 
the  very  next  few  days ;  I  could  not  pledge  myself  with 
any  certainty — " 

And  then  a  wild  idea  occurred  to  him— an  idea  that 
sent  the  blood  rushing  to  his  brain.  AYhat  if  the  two  ex- 
cursions could  be  combined?  What  if  he  were  to  take 
Kitty  to  Boat  of  Garry  instead  of  to  Inisheen  ?  Here,  in- 
deed, was  a  project !  Poor  Kitty,  whose  imagination  had 
been  bothered  by  vain  dreams  of  driving  a  carriage  and 
pair!  here  was  the  very  carriage  and  pair  provided  for  her, 
and  the  quietest  of  country  residences  for  the  honeymoon, 
and  a  yacht  at  her  disposal,  and  servants  and  all  awaiting 
her!  Could  anything  be  more  opportune?  Was  there 
ever  such  a  coincidence  in  human  history  ?  Of  course  ho 
knew  that  great  people  frequently  lent  their  country-seat 
to  a  bridegroom  and  bride  as  a  safe  and  pleasant  i-etreat 
during  the  honeymoon ;  but  that  he  and  Kitty  should  be 
suddenly  and  unexpectedly  provided  with  this  paradise 
down  by  the  sea — that,  surely,  was  a  thing  that  never  could 
have  entered  her  brain,  even  when  she  was  dreaming  of  the 
bliss  of  having  a  carriage  and  pair,  and  being  rich,  and 


SHANDON  BELLS.  237 

driving  through  pretty  scenery.  Moreover,  vs  ould  it  not 
be  a  great  inducement  for  her  to  fix  a  definite  time?  Could 
she  withstand  the  pictures  he  would  draw  of  this  happy  and 
secret  retirement  there  ? 

''  But,"  said  he,  quickly,  "  did  you  mean  that  it  was 
necessary  that  I  should  go  to  Boat  of  Garry  alone  ?  " 

"  Alone  ?  Not  at  all,"  said  she.  "  I  spoke  of  your  being 
there  alone  in  case  you  might  want  to  continue  your  liter- 
ary work.  Of  course  I  don't  think  I  could  induce  auntie 
to  let  you  take  with  you,  although  you  are  a  great  favorite 
of  hers,  a  big  party  of  strangers " 

"  Oh,  I  don't  mean  that  at  all,"  said  Fitzgerald,  hastily. 
His  brain  was  painting  pictures  with  such  vivid  colors  as 
John  Ross  never  squeezed  out  of  any  tin  tube. 

"It  would  be  a  great  favor  to  me,"  continued  Miss 
Chetwynd,  seeing  that  he  was  now  considering  her  scheme, 
"  and  it  would  be  a  pleasant  holiday  for  you,  and  it  would 
be  doing  a  service  to  poor  old  auntie.  She  would  see  that 
very  soon.  The  present  state  of  aifairs  could  not  possibly 
continue;  and  I  am  sure,  once  the  gradual  change  was 
made,  she  would  be  the  first  to  acknowledge  that  it  was 
right.  To  tell  you  the  truth,  Mr.  Fitzgerald,  I  was  once  a 
little  afraid  of  that  fixed  idea  of  hers.  I  did  not  like  it, 
especially  when  she  was  alone,  her  melancholy  seemed  to 
get  so  morbid  and  hopeless.  But  now  that  she  has  come 
back  to  the  old  interest  in  everyday  affairs,  surely  now  is 
the  time  to  get  her  to  give  up  this  too  sensitive  repugnance 
of  hers  to  having  Boat  of  Garry  touched  in  any  way ;  and 
I  don't  see  any  one  else  who  can  do  it  so  easily  as  you.  I 
do  not  know  whether  it  has  occurred  to  you,"  she  continued 
— and  for  the  first  time  she  showed  a  little  embarrassment 
— "  but  I  think  my  aunt  wishes  to  put  you,  as  far  as  is  now 
possible,  in  Frank's  place — I  mean  in  her  little  world  of 
friendships  and  interests ;  and  sometimes  I  am  quite  startled, 
when  I  come  into  the  room  accidentally,  to  Loar  her  chatting 
to  you  in  exactly  the  same  tone  she  used  to  use  to  him.  She 
thinks  you  are  exactly  his  height;  but  you  are  an  inch  and  a 
half  taller — two  inches,  perhaps.  And  dear  old  auntie  for- 
gets a  little  ;  and  now  she  thinks  that  poor  Frank  was  just 
as  fond  of  books  and  writing  and  poetry  and  all  that  as  you 
are,  whereas  there  was  nothing  Frank  hated  so  much  as  a 
book,  except  British  Rural  Sports^  and  Colotiel  Hawker's 
volume,  and  the  Fields  on  Sunday  morning.  You  won't 
find  much  of  a  library  at  Boat  of  Garry  if  you  go  there.  Do 


238  SHANDON  BELLS, 

you  think  it  is  hard  of  me  to  speak  of  my  dead  brother  like 
that?  Sometimes  I  think  I  have  less  than  my  share  of 
natural  affection,  when  I  find  I  can't  quite  believe  all  that 
poor  old  auntie  believes  about  him.  And  yet  I  was  very 
fond  of  him.  The  world  seemed  quite  changed  for  me 
when  he  died ;  there  seemed  to  be  no  one  with  whom  I 
ever  could  be  so  intimate,  and  who  did  me  so  much  good 
in  talking  plain  common  sense  when  I  was  inclined  to  at- 
tempt impossible  things.  And  yet  when  I  find  how  com- 
mon such  sorrows  are,  I  sometimes  think  that  I  grieve  too 
much,  and  that  I  should  try  not  to  think  about  him  at  all, 
but  to  go  on  with  my  work,  such  as  it  is,  and  let  everything 
be  for  the  best.  Only  the  world  seemed  to  get  so  empty 
when  he  was  taken  away  from  us.  I  cared  more  for  his 
approval  than  for  anybody's,  although  he  was  not  clever. 
I  could  not  bear  his  laughing  at  me.  I  used  to  go  out  with 
him  when  he  went  shooting'  though  the  cry  of  a  hare  when 
it  was  struck  cut  my  heart  like  a  knife.  The  smallest 
present  he  made  me  was  of  more  value  than  anything  any- 
body else  could  give  me.  He  used  to  call  me  his  '  little 
girl,'  though  I  was  quite  as  tall  as  he  was — perhaps  a  trifle 
taller.  And — although  I  am  not  very  sentimental — still, 
to  tell  you  the  truth,  Mr.  Fitzgerald,  I  should  not  like  the 
idea — not  just  yet — of  your  taking  a  big  party  of  strangers 
to — to — Frank's  house." 

"  Oh  of  course  not,"  said  he,  instantly.  "  I  did  not  dream 
of  such  a  thing." 

She  was  a  little  tremulous  about  the  lips — only  for  a 
second. 

"  If  any  one  went  with  me,''  said  he,  thinking  it  better 
she  should  know  the  truth,  "  it  would  be  my  wdfe." 

"  But  you  are  not  married  Mr.  Fitzgerald  ? "  she  ex- 
claimed, with  wonder  in  her  eyes. 
«  No " 

**  But  you  are  going  to  be  ?  "  she  said,  with  a  quick  in- 
terest. 

Then  her  eyes  dropped. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon.  I  really  beg  your  pardon,"  she 
said,  as  she  rose.  "  I  have  taken  up  so  much  of  your  time. 
You  ought  to  have  stopped  my  chatter.  Well,  may  I  as- 
sume that  you  are  my  accomplice  ?  '* 

"Miss  Chetwynd,"  said  he,  with  a  smile, "  I  have  a  suspi- 
cion that  your  ways  are  very  like  your  aunt's  ways,  and 


SHANDON  BELLS,  239 

that  you  contrive  kindnesses  under  the  guise  of  begging  for 
a  favor." 

"  On  the  contrary,"  she  said,  as  she  gave  him  her  hand, 
*'  my  motives  are  distinctly  mercenary.  I  don't  want  that 
money  to  be  thrown  away  from  year  to  year  for  nothing  ; 
and  I  ask  for  your  help.  At  the  same  time  I  am  not  say- 
ing that  you  might  not  have  a  pleasant  holiday  there.  Good- 
night, and  thank  you  so  much." 

Even  in  his  eager  haste  to  get  outside  and  consider  all 
the  bearings  of  this  new  proposal  that  he  would  lay  before 
Kitty,  he  could  not  but  carry  away  with  him  a  pleasant  im- 
pression from  this  little  interview.  Mary  Chetwynd  had 
been  so  gentle,  so  kind,  and  serious,  and  true  in  manner,  so 
good  an  example  (as  he  thought)  of  an  accomplished  and 
amiable  and  frank  young  English  gentlewoman,  that  he 
had  a  little  remorse  about  it  all.  Perhaps  he  had  misunder 
stood  her  somewhat.  It  did  not  appear  that  her  heart  had  been 
altogether  hardened  by  scornful  knowledge  :  what  if  there 
were  no  such  deadly  antagonism,  after  all,  between  senti- 
ment and  science?  How  nicely  she  had  spoken  of  old  Mrs. 
Chetwynd !  what  true  affection  breathed  in  her  little  simple 
sentences  about  her  brother !  Even  that  bit  of  embarrass- 
ment seemed  so  womanly :  she  had  instantly  withdrawn  her 
questions  for  fear  of  giving  offence.  And  if  she  were  to 
prove  the  means  of  putting  this  great  happiness  within  the 
reach  of  Kitty  and  himself,  would  he  not  seek  some  oppor- 
tunity in  the  future  to  show  that  he  was  not  altogether  in- 
sensible of  her  kindness  ? 

But  the  immediate  thing  was  to  let  Kitty  know.  He 
was  so  anxious  to  put  any  additional  inducement  before 
her  ;  and  certainly  this  one — as  his  quick  imagination  pic- 
tured it — was  of  sufficient  value.  But  would  it  appeal  in 
like  measure  to  Kitty  ?  Would  she  be  able  to  see  all  those 
fascmating  glimpses  of  their  life  together  in  the  house  by 
the  sea  that  now  crowded  in  on  his  mind?  What  a  pity  it 
was  he  had  not  been  able  to  add  this  temptation  to  his 
letter  of  that  morning !  No  matter  ;  by  the  time  she  reached 
Limerick  both  letters  would  probably  be  awaiting  her  at 
the  post-office. 

Then  in  his  impatience  he  walked  to  a  telegraph  office, 
and  sent  ofE  this  message  to  her  :  "  If  you  are  remaining  at 
Killarney,  ask  letters  to  be  forwarded  from  Limerick.  Do 
not  answer  first  letter  till  you  get  second.  Telegraph  if 
this  reached." 


240  SHANDON  BELLS 

This  second  letter  was  the  one  that  he  was  now  hurry- 
ing home  to  write.  And  tliese  were  bright-colored  pictures 
that  he  saw  before  him  in  tlie  gray  dusk  of  the  evening,  as 
he  went  ra])idly  along  the  London  streets.  He  somewhat 
forced  himself  to  think  of  them.  There  was  something  else 
he  would  not  think  of — tliai  he  put  away.  This  was  the 
immediate  question  :  whether  Kitty  also  would  not  be 
fascinated  by  tliese  new  possibilities?  Had  she  already  had 
a  passing  glance  at  the  beauties  of  Glengariff  ? — then  she 
would  know  the  sort  of  country  through  which  she  could 
have  her  daily  drives  in  that  coveted  carriage  and  pair. 
Would  she  come  part  of  the  way  up  the  hill  in  the  evening 
to  meet  him  on  his  return  from  the  shooting?  Would  she 
take  a  book  with  her  and  sit  on  tlie  river-bank,  among  the 
warm  grass  and  the  meadow-sweet,  while  with  a  big 
sweep  of  the  rod  he  dropped  the  great  salmon-fly  into 
the  deep  and  distant  pool  ?  And  then  lie  knew  that 
Kitty  would  jump  nj)  with  a  shriek  of  delight  when  the 
struggle  began ;  and  she  would  watch  with  wide  eyes  the 
rushes  and  the  sharp  and  dangerous  leaps  of  the  big 
fish ;  and  by  and  by,  when  victory  was  becoming  sure, 
would  she  stand  by  his  side  with  the  gaft"  ready  to  his 
hand  ?  For  one  thing,  Kitty  was  not  the  best  of  sailors. 
But  then  you  could  so  quickly  run  back  again  in  a  steam- 
launch  if  there  was  anything  like  a  sea  on  outside ;  and 
no  doubt  still  days  would  occur  on  which  she  might,  all  by 
herself,  as  it  were — imagine  Kitty  in  sole  command  of  a 
steamer ! — sail  all  the  way  around  by  Dursey  Head  into 
Kenmare  River,  while  he  shot  across  the  Slieve  Miskish 
heights,  if  the  Boat  of  Garry  shootings  extended  so  far. 
And  then  to  think  of  his  being  away  up  there  in  the  wilder- 
ness of  rock  and  heather,  and  far  below  him  the  little  toy 
steamer,  and  the  tiniest  figure  sitting  in  the  stern  reading. 
Can  the  dog-whistle  reach  as  far?  Or  the  view  halloo  of 
the  keeper  to  the  engine-man  Or  is  it  Kitty  herself  who 
first  catches  sight  of  them,  and  starts  up,  and  waves  a  hand- 
kerchief ?  It  is  almost  a  race  down  the  hill  at  last ;  and 
then  the  little  boat  is  sent  ashore,  and  they  are  pulled  out 
to  the  small  steamer,  and  the  birds  and  the  big  brown 
hares  are  all  laid  out  on  deck.  And  then  away  to  sea 
again  in  the  golden  evening,  with  the  long  headlands  grow- 
ing warmer  in  color  as  the  sun  sinks,  and  the  Atlantic 
murmuring  all  along  the  solitary  coasts.  Would  there  be 
a  piano  at  Boat  of  Garry  ?    Or  would  their  evenings  be 


SHANDON  BELLS,  241 

Bpent  out  of  doors  mostly,  until  the  stars  began  to  be  visible 
over  the  trees?  Kitty  was  fond  of  the  din-kness  and  of 
silence;  they  would  hear  the  curlews  calling  along  tiie shore 
as  they  went  home  through  the  meadows. 

It  was  of  Kitty  at  Boat  of  Garry,  not  of  Kitty  at  Kil- 
larney,  that  he  forced  himself  to  think.  Also  he  per- 
suaded himself  that  this  way  of  spending  the  honeymoon 
would  be  a  very  inexpensive  one.  Kitty  must  admit 
that.  There  would  be  no  hotel  bills,  no  costs  by  road  or 
rail.  Kitty  was  almost  in  the  neighborhood;  the  travel 
ling  would  be  nothing.  Would  it  be  asking  too  much 
that  the  carriage  should  meet  them  at  Kenmare  to  take 
them  up  and  over  the  gaunt  mountain-road  until  they 
descended  into  the  leafy  woods  of  Glengariff  ?  No  doubt 
the  horses  would  be  the  better  for  some  good  stiff  work 
now  ;  it  was  far  from  probable  that  the  coachman  had  taken 
them  out  for  regular  exercise  in  a  place  where  there  was 
no  master. 

These  points  and  many  more  were  put  before  Kitty  in 
this  second  letter.  It  was  a  very  matter  of  fact  letter.  It 
assumed  that  Kitty  would  be  as  delighted  as  himself  with  this 
opportune  proposal.  Why  should  he  implore  and  beseech  ? 
— would  not  his  faithful  Kitty  rejoice  as  he  rejoiced  to  see 
their  dearest  hopes  within  easy  reach  of  fulfilment?  And 
it  behooved  him  to  be  very  business-like  now.  Kitty  need 
not  be  afraid  of  the  cost  of  the  wedding ;  the  simpler  the  bet- 
ter. And  if  he  disingenuously  omitted  to  mention  all  the 
minute  points  of  the  case — if,  without  being  guilty  of  any 
misstatement  whatsoever,  he  still  left  it  possible  for  Kitty  to 
imagine  that  this  proposal  that  they  should  occupy  Boat  of 
Garry  had  been  made  by  the  Chetwynds  with  especial  refer- 
ence to  her  marriage  trip — what  harm  was  there  in  Kitty 
innocently  believing  that  these  two  ladies  wished  to  be 
kind  to  her? 

So  he  went  and  posted  that  letter  too.  All  that  he 
could  do  he  had  done.  Then  he  walked  back  to  the  court- 
yard, found  John  Ross  at  home,  and  the  rest  of  the  evening 
was  spent  in  the  Scotchman's  studio. 

For  Fitzgerald  had  grown  half  afraid  of  sitting  by  him- 
self in  the  solitary  room  upstairs.  Sometimes  strange 
imaginings  would  flash  across  his  brain — fears  that  took  his 
breath  away — that  were  hateful  and  horrible — that  were  as 
unworthy  of  himself  as  they  were  cruel  to  the  true-hearted 


242  SIIANDON  BELLS, 

and  tender-eyed  Kitty,  who  was  so  far  away,  with  no  one 
to  speak  for  her  innocence  and  honor  and  faith,  if  he  should 
dare  to  doubt. 


CHAPTER  XXII. 

THE     REVELATION. 


The  days  passed ;  no  message  of  any  kind,  no  letter,  no 
telegram,  came  to  these  poor  lodgings  in  the  Fulhara  Road. 
No  work  Avas  possible  for  him.  He  kept  pacing  up  and 
down  the  room,  listening  for  the  postman,  or  idly  wander- 
ing through  the  streets  of  Chelsea,  always  certain  that  her 
reply  would  be  awaiting  him  there  on  his  return.  If  he 
thought  of  anything,  it  was  of  how  he  and  she  together 
would  occupy  the  mornings  and  days  and  long  summer 
evenings  at  Boat  of  Garry.  His  eyes  were  turned  to  the 
south.  He  seemed  to  keep  his  face  averted  from  Killarney. 
Limerick  was  a  blank  to  him. 

He  tried  to  avoid  John  Ross ;  but  Ross  was  not  to  be 
avoided.  He  came  upstairs,  regarded  Fitzgerald  for  a 
second,  looked  suspiciously  round — as  was  his  wont,  indeed, 
for  his  eyes  seemed  to  take  in  everything — and  forthwith 
drove  his  neighbor  down  into  the  studio,  where  Fitzgerald 
found  that  a  sumptuous  supper  (according  to  their  notions 
down  that  way)  had  been  prepared  for  two. 

"  I  have  noticed  ye,  my  man,"  said  Ross,  "  once  or 
twice  of  late.     Ye  are  at  it  again." 

"  At  what  ?  " 

"  Starving  yourself." 

"  Indeed  I  am  not.  Why  should  I  starve  myself  when 
I  have  four  pounds  a  week,  with  chances  of  more?" 

Ross  muttered  something  to  himself,  as  he  brought  one 
or  two  further  things  to  the  supper  table.  Then  he  fetched 
a  bottle  of  beer  for  his  companion,  and  they  both  sat  down. 
I'itzgerald  began  to  talk  about  a  railway  accident  that  had 
liaj)pened  the  iDrevious  day,  but  Ross  had  other  thoughts  in 
his  mind. 

"  Ye  are  not  starving  yourself,  then  ?  "  said  he,  glancing 
at  his  neighbor. 

"  Not  in  the  least." 


SI7AND0X  BELLS.  243 

"Ye  are  not  looking  well,  then.  Ye  keep  too  much 
indoore,  and  too  much  in  town.  Ye'll  forget  what  the 
country  is  like  if  ye  go  on  like  this  ;  and  fine  leeterature 
you'll  turn  out  then  ! — leeterature  with  a  white  face  and 
bloodless  hands.  What  the  mischief  do  ye  mean?"  ho 
exclaimed,  suddenly.     "  No  meat  ?  " 

Fitzgerald  had  pushed  his  plate  away,  and  was  merely 
playing  with  a  bit  of  crust. 

^"  l1iad  something,"  he  said,  evasively. 

"When?" 

"  Oh,  not  verv  long  ago." 

*'  When  ?  "  said  the  other. 

"  Well,  about  the  middle  of  the  day." 

"  And  so  ye  have  got  yourself  into  the  habit  of  eating 
nothing  after  two  o'clock?" 

He  himself  was  busy  enough.  For  a  time  Fitzgerald 
had  all  the  talking.  What  he  talked  about  was  merely  the 
current  news  of  the  papers. 

"  There's  an  article  I  would  like  to  see  ye  write ;  ye 
might  do  some  good  wi't,"  said  Ross  at  length. 

"  What  do  you  charge  for  supplying  subjects  to  poor 
authors  ?  " 

"  Oh,  but  it's  no  for  fine  lecterary  treatment,  this.  It's 
a  sledge-hammer  ye  want  to  smash  down  a  piece  of  meeser- 
able  hypocrisy.  I  want  ye  to  denounce  the  perueecious 
sympathy  that  ye  find  expressed  in  books — and  mostly  in 
weemen's  books,  I  may  say — for  the  genteel  folk  who  are 
*  keeping  up  appearances,'  and  for  the  trouble  they  suffer  in 
consequence.  Lord  save  us !  these  are  the  people  we  are 
to  sympathize  wi' — people  whose  vanity  makes  them  live 
at  eight  hundred  pounds  a  year,  Avhen  they  have  only  three 
hundred  pounds ;  and  it's  a  '  proper  pride' ;  and  they're 
doing  the  best  for  the  family.  A  proper  pride  that  must 
suffer  some  stings,  I  should  think,  M^hen  the  unpaid 
tradesmen  come  ringing  at  the  door.  And  then  the  way 
tliey  are  described  as  peetying  themselves,  and  sighing  with 
resignation  over  their  struggles,  just  as  if  God  had  decreed 
them  to  have  hired  broughams,  and  dinner  parties,  and 
their  daughters  at  boarding-schools,  and  what  not;  and  as 
if  their  no  being  able  to  settle  their  bills  was  something 
they  could  not  make  out !  No  ;  it  is  their  right  to  live  in 
such  a  way ;  it  never  occurs  to  them  that  if  they  have  three 
luuidred  pounds  a  year,  they'd  better  live  on  that,  or  less ; 
they  have  to  keep  up  appearances,  and  vou  and  me  are 


241  SIIANDON  bells'. 

expected  to  have  Ji  great  peety  for  all  they  suffer  through 
their  perneeeious  vanity  and  pretence.  If  they  choose  to 
live  beyond  ttieir  income,  let  them  smart  for  it ! — why 
should  I  peety  them  ?  I  peety  the  butchers  and  green- 
grocers that  they  plunder ;  or,  worse  still,  that  they  leave 
so  long  unpaid  that  the  poor  man,  for  want  of  ready  raoney, 
is  forced  to  take  to  overcharging  and  trade  dodges,  and  in  a 
measure  becoines  a  thief.  Now  I  am  told,"  said  he,  fixing 
his  keen  eyes  on  Fitzgerald  for  a  second,  "that  you  Irish 
are  rayther  given  to  that  keeping  up  of  appearances ;  that 
is  to  say,  living  at  a  rate  ye  can  not  ])roperly  afford." 

Fitzgerald  suspected  as  much.  These  homilies  of  Ross's 
generally  ended  with  a  personal  application. 

"  Some  of  the  small  squireens  are  pretty  much  given 
that  way,"  he  said,  "but  I  suppose  you'll  find  about  an 
equal  amount  of  pretentiousness  everywhere  among  the 
poor  genteel.  It  isn't  easy  for  them  to  give  up  the  way  of 
living  they  have  been  used  to." 

"  But  it's  the  beginning,  my  lad,"  said  the  other.  *'  It's 
the  beginning  to  live  beyond  your  means  that's  the  mis- 
chief. Now  you,  for  exami)le — how  are  you  going  to 
begin  ?  " 

"  I  told  you.  In  two  small  rooms,  I  hope,  at  perhaps 
eight  or  ten  shillings  a  week.  Then  we  shall  look  about 
for  a  house." 

"  What  size  ?  " 

"  Small.  But  I  know  what  you  are  thinking  of,  Ross, 
and  there's  no  use  beating  about  the  bush.  You  are  think- 
ing that  I  am  starving  myself,  being  too  keen  in  saving  up 
money ;  and  that  this  probably  means  that  I  shall  start 
housekeeping  in  too  expensive  a  way.  I  think  that  is 
about  what  you  are  afraid  of." 

"  It  is,"  said  the  other,  promptly.  "  You  have  just  hit 
it.  I  can  not  understand  the  use  of  such  violent  means.  I 
take  it  that  when  two  young  people  get  married,  they 
should  accommodate  themselves  reasonably  and  fairly  to 
their  income — not  starving  yourself,  Inddie — and  when  cir- 
cumstances improve,  let  their  expenditure  grow.  But  if 
ye  begin  at  the  beginning  with  a  vain  pretence  of  genteelity, 
and  get  into  trouble,  do  ye  expect  I  am  going  to  peety  ye  ? 
Not  one  jot." 

"No;  what  you  would  do  would  be  to  lend  us  money," 
said  Fitzgerald,  who  knew  the  ways  of  this  ]>urson.  "But 
there's  no  starvation  in  the  case — not  the  least  "       i 


SlIANDOy  BELLS.  24.'; 

"Then  what  is  the  matter  with  ye?  Where  got  yo 
til  at  grayness  in  the  face  ? "  said  his  friend,  whose  eyes 
missed  nothing. 

"  1  have  been  working  hard,"  said  the  other,  evasively, 
"  and  been  anxious  a  little  about  one  or  two  things." 

"  I  wish  ye  could  bring  that  young  lass  over  here  and 
marry  her  straight  off,"  said  Ross,  bluntly. 

"  That  may  not  be  so  far  away,"  was  Fitzgerald's  an- 
swer ;  and  his  friend — though  he  waited  for  a  second,  re- 
garding him,  as  if  he  expected  him  to  say  more — accepted 
Fitzgerald's  silence,  and  forbore  to  press  him  with  any 
question. 

Next  morning  there  was  again  neither  letter  nor  tele- 
gram. This  suspense  was  more  than  he  could  bear.  He 
hastily  w^ent  to  the  telegraph  office,  and  sent  messages  both 
to  Killarney  and  Limerick,  asking  w^hether  she  had  not  re- 
ceived his  communications.  More  than  that,  he  telegraphed 
to  the  postmaster  at  Limerick,  asking  to  be  informed 
■whether  letters  addressed  to  Miss  Romayne  had  been  sent 
or  called  for. 

The  day  passed  somehow  ;  there  was  no  answer.  And 
now  he  made  sure  she  could  be  neither  at  Killarney  nor  at 
Limerick;  and  a  thousand  conjectures  filled  his  anx- 
ious mind  as  to  what  might  have  happened.  He  went 
back  over  her  letters.  There  she  had  used  the  phrase  "  make 
our  way "  to  Limerick ;  and  it  occurred  to  him  that  in- 
stead of  coming  back  by  rail  to  Mallow,  and  so  getting 
north,  it  was  just  possible  she  and  Miss  Patience  might 
have  tried  to  get  round  by  Tralee  and  Listowel,  taking  the 
stage-coaches.  And  although  they  were  both  pretty  ex- 
perienced travellers,  who  could  tell  what  slight  "misadven- 
ture might  not  have  detained  them  somewhere  in  these 
western  wilds?  It  was  the  only  possible  explanation  of 
Kitty's  silence.  And  again  he  convinced  himself  that 
there  could  not  have  been  any  serious  accident,  or  that 
would  have  found  its  way  to  the  papers.  That  truant 
Kitty,  to  go  and  lose  herself  among  these  Kerry  moun- 
tains ! 

Then,  when  he  was  least  expecting  it,  there  came  to 
him  a  letter,  or  brief  note  rather. 

Killarney,  Thursday  Morning, 
"Deab  Willie, — ^You  di-ive  me  to  say  that  you  are 
very  inconsiderate  in  worrying  me    with   these  constant 


246  SJMNDON  BELLS. 

letters  and  telegrams.  I  meet  with  so  much  consideration 
and  kindness  on  every  hand  that  it  is  all  the  more  surpris- 
ing to  find  you  so  exacting  and  impatient.  That  would  not 
seem  a  pleasing  prospect  to  any  one.  I  have  not  sent  for 
your  letters  to  the  Limerick  Post-office,  because  there  would 
not  be  time.  We  leave  here  to-morrow,  and  do  not  go  to 
Limerick,  the  engagement  bemg  cancelled.  But  I  dare 
say  I  know  what  is  in  them;  and  I  am  rather  tired  of  arguing. 
Besides,  you  do  not  seem  to  think  of  anything  but  your 
own  wishes.  How  could  I  turn  adrift  Miss  Patience,  who 
has  no  means  of  livelihood  whatever?  She  has  been  most 
faithful  and  good  and  kind  to  me ;  and  of  course  I  could 
not  send  her  away  without  making  some  provision  for  her. 
I  am  sure  I  wish  to  please  every  one — especially  those  who 
have  been  very  kind  to  me ;  but  it  is  sometimes  so  dis- 
tracting to  try  to  please  everybody  that  sometimes  I  don't 
know  what  I  may  not  do.  But  please  be  a  little  forbear- 
ing with  me ;  you  are  so  impetuous. 

"  Your  affectionate  Kitty  " 

He  stared  at  the  letter  in  dumb  amazement.  Was  it  really 
Kitty  who  had  written  that  ?  Was  it  the  Kitty  with  whom 
he  had  walked  arm  in  arm  through  the  hawthorn  lanes  on 
the  Sunday  mornings  —  who  could  find  no  speech  soft 
enough,  no  caressings  endearing  enough,  no  words  of  love 
true  and  close  and  near  enough,  for  him — who  was  now  re- 
proaching him  with  his  want  of  consideration,  and  taunt- 
ing him  with  the  suggestion  that  others  were  kinder  than 
he  ?  Was  it  possible  for  a  woman's  heart  to  change  so  ? 
He  would  not  look  at  the  intermediate  time  ;  he  would  not 
think  of  tlje  last  six  or  eight  months'  letters ;  it  was  the 
Kitty  of  Inisheen  that  he  was  thinking  of — it  was  the  Kitty 
who  had  stretched  her  warm,  trembling  little  hand  to  him 
across  the  stream  down  in  the  darkness,  and  repeated  the 
pledge  that  gave  each  to  the  other,  and  looked  up  and 
kissed  him  when  the  lovers'  vows  were  over.  Was  this 
the  same  Kitty  ? 

But  she  could  not  have  changed  so.  He  would  not  be- 
lieve it.  Kitty  had  been  put  out  of  temper  by  something ; 
and  at  such  times  she  wrote  hurriedly,  a  little  incoherently, 
sometimes  heedless  of  her  grammar  even.  What  he  would 
do  would  be  to  take  the  matter  in  his  own  hands.  He 
would  go  and  get  hold  of  Kitty  herself — ^that  was  the  first 
thing.     Once  he  had  a  grip  of  her  small,  warm  fingers,  he 


SITANDON  BELLS.  247 

should  feel  safe.  Poor  lass,  she  had  become  petulant 
tlirougli  being  left  so  mucli  alone.  He  would  press  back 
the  hair  from  her  forehead,  and  smile  away  the  evil  spirit 
from  her  eyes. 

But  it  suddenly  struck  him  that  she  had  not  said 
where  she  was  going.  Was  he  to  lose  all  clue  to  her 
whereabouts,  then  ?  Was  she  to  remain  for  an  indefinite 
time  in  this  petulant  mood?  Then  a  strange  sort  of  fear 
— that  seemed  to  go  through  his  heart  like  a  red-hot  wire — 
stabbed  him,  as  it  were;  and  in  a  blind  and  bewildered 
way  he  went  down  the  stairs,  and  went  in  to  Ross's 
studio. 

"  Ross,"  said  he — and  Ross  certainly  stared  at  him,  for 
his  manner  was  unusual — "I  wouldn't  show  you  a  love- 
letter  ;  but  this  isn't  much  of  a  love-letter.  I  wish  you 
would  look  at  it,  and  tell  me  what  you  think." 

He  seemed  rather  breathless. 

"  Have  you  had  any  quai-rel  ?  "  said  John  Ross,  when 
he  had  read  the  letter  slowly  and  carefully. 

"  Quarrel  ?  Not  a  shadow  of  a  quarrel,"  he  said, 
eagerly. 

"Will  I  tell  ye  what  I  think?"  said  his  friend,  watch- 
ing his  expression  closelv. 

"  Why  not  ?     Why  not  ?     That's  what  I  want." 

"  I  think  that  young  lass  is  going  to  marry  another 
man." 

Fitzgerald  reached  out  his  hand,  and  took  back  the 
letter. 

"  You  are  quite  wrong,"  he  said,  quietly,  but  with  his 
face  very  gray  and  haggard.  "You  are  quite  mistaken 
about  that.     You  don't  know  my — my  darling." 

He  went  away  without  another  word  ;  and  Ross  knew 
better  than  to  follow  him. 

His  faithfulness  fought  on  to  the  end.  He  would  not 
bolieve  it.  It  was  not  in  human  nature.  The  heart  of  a 
woman  could  not  be  so  treacherous.  It  was  not  possible 
/or  the  Kitty  whom  he  had  clasped  to  his  breast  on  the 
fihore  there  at  Inisheen,  when  her  face  was  wet  with  tears 
in  the  moonlight — it  was  not  possible  for  that  Kitty  to  be 
gayly  smiling  a  love  smile  into  other  eyes.  He  had  heard 
her  heart  beat. 

There  came  a  letter  : — 

DuBLiis",  Jxine  2. 

''Dear  Mr.  Fitzgerald, — In  the  hurry  of    packing, 


248  S/fAA'DON  BELLS. 

I  have  been  commissioned  to  acquaint  you  with  a  piece  of 
news,  whicli  I  fear  will  cause  you  some  pain,  though  prob- 
ably but  little  surprise.  Miss  Romayne  is  to  be  married 
to  Mr.  Cobbs  to-morrow  morning ;  and  I  believe  they  go 
to  the  Isle  of  Man  afterwards,  where  Mr.  Cobbs  has  some 
friends.  For  my  part,  I  must  say  I  am  heartily  glad  of  it ; 
for  although  Miss  Romayne  has  always  been  kind  to  me, 
and  remains  so,  her,  successive  flirtations  have  only  caused 
me  eiribarrassment ;  and  I  have  often  been  suspected  of 
influencing  her  to  favor  this  one  or  reject  the  other,  when 
in  truth  I  took  no  interest  at  .all  in  such  trivial  matters. 
What  I  can  not  help  regretting  is  the  £40  that  will  have  to 
be  paid  to  the  Limerick  people  for  her  cancelling  the  en- 
gagement ;  but  Mr.  Cobbs  has  plenty  of  money,  and  prob- 
ably they  regard  that  as  a  small  matter  now.  I  have 
some  things  to  send  back  to  you,  but  can  not  get  a  proper 
box  before  the  morning.     It  shall  be  registered. 

"  Yours  sincerely,  E.  Patience." 

There  was  one  word  added  to  this  letter — in  another 
and  trembling  handwriting.  It  was  in  a  corner.  It  was 
the  word  ^'•Forgive.''' 

The  drowning  man,  we  have  often  been  told,  sees  all 
the  chief  events  of  his  life  pass  before  him — a  procession  of 
clear  and  startling  pictures — in  time  limited  to  seconds. 
This  man  saw  wild  and  sudden  visions  too,  as  he  l^ent  for- 
ward his  brow  on  his  clasped  hands ;  but  these  rapid,  be- 
wildering, heart-breaking  scenes  had  always  for  their  cen- 
tral figure  a  woman.  All  the  rest  of  his  life  was  forgotten. 
The  beautiful  pictures  ! — filled  with  the  color  and  sunlight 
of  young  love  and  hope ;  and  even  in  the  midst  of  them — 
whether  by  sea  or  shore,  in  rocky  glen  or  on  the  breezy 
hillside — some  one  laughing  with  parted  lips,  and  smiling 
with  glad  eyes.  But  then  this  other  vision  that  would  in- 
trude :  it  was  like  the  dreadful  thing  that  Heine  saw : 
"  That  was  a  merry  bridal  feast ;  joyfully  the  guests  sat  at 
the  table  ;  but  when  I  regarded  the  bridal  pair — Ah,  God, 
my  darling  was  the  hride  !  " 

Was  the  blow  unexpected,  then  ?  No.  For  days  and 
weeks  he  had  been  living  under  the  shadow  of  this  name- 
less fear.  It  had  been  like  a  black  cloud  over  him;  he 
would  not  look  at  it ;  he  tried  to  escape  from  it ;  he  tried 
to  argue  it  out  of  .existence.  He  would  not  confess  to  a 
doubt  of  Kitty's  honor  and  faith.     Had  she  not  kissed  hini 


SHAND  ON  BELLS  219 

by  the   side   of   tlie    stream  where  they  tiad  plighted  their 
troth  together? 

And  now  he  had  nothing  to  say  about  perjured  lips,  or 
women's  deceit,  or  anything  of  the  kind.  The  wound  had 
struck  deeper  than  that.  It  had  struck  at  the  very  founda- 
tions of  his  faith  in  human  nature.  Rather  vaguely  and 
thoughtfully — for  these  pictures  of  Inisheen  were  still  before 
his  eyes — he  got  his  hat  and  stick,  and  w^ent  out  into  the  mild 
summer  air.  The  day  was  fine;  the  people  seemed  busy. 
He  only  knew  that  life  was  over  for  him  ;  that  the  world 
had  nothing  left  for  him — except,  it  might  be,  a  few  memo- 
ries :  he  was  without  interest,  or  care,  or  hope,  though 
the  lad  had  scarcely  touched  his  four-and-twentieth  year. 


CHAPTER  XXIII. 

"  SIE  TKAGEN  ZU  DIE,  O  GELIEBTE  !  " 

It  is  midday  on  the  first  of  June  ;  the  skies  are  clear 
and  this  old-fashioned  coach  goes  jolting,  and  rattling,  and 
swinging  away  through  the  lonely  country  that  lies  between 
Drimoleague  and  Bantry  Bay.  The  w^arm  summer  air  is 
sweetened,  now  W'ith  the  fragrance  of  the  abundant  honey- 
suckle, now  with  a  whiff  of  peat  smoke  from  one  of  those 
poor  stone  hovels  near  the  wayside.  There  are  plenty  of 
beautiful  things  to  charm  the  eye  of  the  traveller.  There 
are  masses  of  blue  forget-me-nots  in  the  marshy  pools. 
The  waste  bog-land  has  its  own  rich  hues ;  and  these  rude 
stone  walls  that  enclose  the  miserable  bit  of  farm  or  garden 
are  surmounted  by  golden  gorse.  Even  the  far-reaching 
sterile  hills,  where  the  scant  pasturage  scarcely  tints  the 
barren  rock,  have  their  qualities  of  color  that  a  painter  might 
observe.  For  the  day  is  beautiful ;  the  air  is  clear,  and  the 
sunshine  falls  so  strongly  that  the  shadows  under  the  hedge- 
rows or  under  a  steep  bank  seem  quite  black — and  yet  not 
the  opaque  black  that  a  palette  would  give — but  a  sensitive, 
deep-reaching,  luminous  blackness  that  reveals  things  wdth- 
in  itself,  and  that  is  cut  across  outside  by  the  sharp-pointed 
spears  of  the  iris,  a  brilliant  deep  strong  green  in  the  sun- 
light. 


250  SHANDON  BELLS, 

The  solitary  passenger  by  this  mail-coach  regards  these 
things  with  a  minute  and  close  and  mechanical  attention  ; 
perhaps  he  forces  himself  so  to  regard  them.  He  has  come 
through  the  Valley  of  the  Shadow  of  Death,  as  it  were  : 
there  is  a  black  cloud  behind  him,  and  he  durst  not  look 
that  way  ;  he  busies  himself,  and  strives  to  busy  himself, 
with  the  phenomena  of  the  visible  world  around  him.  And 
while  he  fondly  imagines  that  he  is  contemplating  these 
phenomena  with  the  calm  and  dispassionate  eye  of  an  artist 
— looking  at  the  waste  bog-land  and  the  poor  hovels  and 
the  sad  far  hills  with  a  view  to  guessing  at  their  value  in 
color — in  reality  he  is  reading  human  sorrow,  and  the 
tragedy  of  human  life,  into  every  sight  and  sound  that 
meets   him. 

But  the  first  glimpse  of  the  broad  waters  of  BantryBay 
made  his  heart  leap  with  pain.  Visions  and  dreams  that 
had  occupied  days  not  so  far  bygone  seemed  to  dazzle  his 
eyes  for  a  moment,  but  only  for  a  moment.  With  a  terrible 
effort  he  put  them  away.  He  would  not  confess  to  that 
quick  sharp  quiver  at  the  heart.  He  was  studying  this 
beautiful  picture  as  John  Ross  might  have  studied  it. 
Look  at  the  great  width  of  the  sea,  with  its  armlets  stretch- 
ing in  between  the  sunny  browns  and  greens  of  the  head- 
lands. So  still  is  the  summer  air,  so  calm  and  clear  is  the 
summer  sky,  that  the  blue  of  these  far-reaching  arms  of 
water  is  a  dull  and  almost  opaque  blue — a  sort  of  sealing 
wax  blue — looking  molten  and  heavy  in  the  spaces  between 
the  wooded  islands  and  the  rocks.  The  hills  on  the  other 
side,  that  stretch  away  out  to  the  lonely  Atlantic,  seem 
desolate  and  uninhabited.  It  is  a  sad  picture,  despite  the 
loveliness  of  the  summer  day.  But  if  one  wishes  to  lose 
one's  self — to  get  away  from  the  world,  to  seek  out  the 
secret  haunts  of  nature,  and  find  solace  and  forgetfulnes 
there — surely  these  remote  shores,  these  voiceless  hills  and 
glens,  may  afford  a  resting-place  for  the  tortured  soul. 

He  had  to  encounter  strange  faces  at  Glengariff.  At 
the  pretty  hotel  there,  which  from  a  distance  seemed  to  bo 
half  smothered  among  trees  and  flowers  and  shrubs,  he 
found  a  number  of  the  visitors  sitting  outside,  some  having 
afternoon  tea  at  small  tables,  others  playing  chess,  or  smok- 
ing, or  chatting ;  and  doubtless  they  would  regard  the  new- 
comer wdth  sufficient  curiosity.  No  matter ;  he  was  soon 
inside,  and  there  he  asked  if  he  might  have  a  room  for  the 
night. 


SHANDON  BELLS.  251 

"  Mr.  Fitzgerald,  I  presume  ?  "  said  the  landlady. 

"  That  is  my  name,"  said  he,  with  some  astonishment. 

"  A  room  has  been  kept  for  you,"  she  said ;  and  Fitz- 
gerald could  only  ask  himself  why  he  had  been  astonished, 
for  indeed  the  though tfulness  and  kindness  of  those  Chet- 
wynds  went  beyond  all  bounds. 

**  I  suppose,"  said  he,  "  I  can  get  the  Castletown  mail-car 
in  the  morning?" 

"But  you  won't  need  that,  sir,"  said  the  good  landlady, 
"  for  the  carriage  is  coming  from  Boat  of  Garry  for  you  at 
half  past  ten,  if  that  is  convenient.  I  was  to  give  you  the 
message  from  Mr.  McGee.  Mr.  McGee  has  been  down  to 
Boat  of  Garry  to  see  that  everything  is  in  readiness  for  you  ; 
and  I  was  to  say  that  he  was  very  sorry  he  could  not  stay 
to  meet  you  here,  as  he  had  important  business  at  Kenmare 
to-day." 

"  Oh,  indeed." 

"  Visitors'  book  sir,"  said  a  waiter,  opening  a  large  vol- 
ume that  lay  on  the  hall  table, 

"  Oh  yes,"  said  Fitzgerald,  and  he  mechanically  took  the 
peD  and  wrote  his  name. 

Then  he  lingered,  glancing  over  the  other  names  on  the 
page,  as  is  the  fashion  of  new  arrivals.  He  had  his  finger 
and  thumb  on  the  leaf,  as  if  he  meant  to  pursue  this  aimless 
inquiry,  whf-n  all  at  once  he  seemed  to  recall  himself :  he 
shut  the  book  hastily,  and  turned,  as  if  afraid  that  some  one 
had  been  watching  him,  then  he  went  to  his  room,  and  re- 
mained there  until  dinner  time.  He  sat  at  the  open  window, 
looking  at  the  beautiful  foliage,  and  listening  to  the  birds, 
and  trying  to  think  of  nothing  but  these.  He  would  not  con- 
fess to  himself  what  sudden  and  frightful  suspicion  it  was 
that  had  made  him  so  hurriedly  shut  the  visitors'  book :  nor 
yet  would  he  ask  what  new  weight  this  was  on  his  heart — 
this  terrible  consciousness  that  sooner  or  later,  before  he 
left  the  house,  he  would  be  irresistibly  drawn  to  search  those 
pages. 

At  dinner  he  sat  next  a  vivacious  little  old  gentleman 
with  a  thin  dried  pale  face  and  a  brown  wig,  an  Englishman, 
whose  pleasant  chatting,  if  it  was  not  very  wise  or  profound, 
served  to  beguile  the  time.  He  gave  Fitzgerald  a  vast 
amount  of  information  about  the  neighborhood.  He  had 
his  views  also, 

"  What  is  the  highest  form  of  human  happiness  ?  "  he 
asked,  abruptly. 


252  SHANDON  BELLS, 

"  Killing  a  brace  of  ducks  right  and  left,"  said  Fitzgerald, 
for  the  sake  of  saying  something. 

"  Oh  no.  These  are  violent  enjoyments,  and  violent  enjoy- 
ments are  invariably  accompained  by  violent  disappoint- 
ments. It  is  the  attainment  of  peace  and  content,  which  is 
only  possible  after  the  wild  passions  and  pursuits  of  youth 
are  over.  And  what  does  it  depend  on  ?  Sound  sleep  mostly. 
I  mean  to  live  to  ninety." 

"  I  am  sure  I  hope  you  may,"  said  his  neighbor. 

"  I  think  I  shall.  I  see  no  reason  to  tlie  contrary,"  said 
the  cheerful  old  gentleman.  "  I  cultivate  happiness  and 
liealth  at  the  same  time  :  indeed,  I  find  them  to  be  the  same 
thing.  The  only  stimulant  I  allow  myself  in  the  day — the 
only  thing  that  rises  a  little  above  the  level — is  the  dinner 
hour.  I  permit  myself  that,  and  find  no  harm  in  it.  Now 
when  I  was  your  age  I  did  as  most  young  fellows  did  at 
that  time  :  that  is  to  say,  without  being  a  drunkard,  I  drank 
too  much.  A  brandy  and  soda  in  the  morning,  a  pint  of 
claret  at  lunch,  perhaps  a  glass  of  Madeira  in  the  afternoon,, 
then  the  usual  wine  at  dinner.  What  was  the  resnlt?  There 
was  no  novelty  in  it.  There  was  no  pleasant  stimulus. 
The  system  was  too  familiar  with  these  repeated  excite- 
ments. And  so  nowadays  I  drink  nothing  but  tea  or  soda- 
water  up  till  dinner-time,  and  then  I  have  my  pint  of  cham- 
pagne ;  and  my  whole  system  enjoys  this  unwonted  stim- 
ulus, and  ])erhaps  I  may  even  grow  talkative,  eh  ?  " 

"  But  about  the  sound  sleep — you  have  not  told  me  how 
you  secure  that,"  said  Fitzgerald,  So  long  as  this  old  gentle- 
man would  talk,  he  was  glad  to  listen. 

"  I  will  tell  you;  I  should  like  to  proclaim  it  from  the 
house-tops,"  said  the  other,  seriously.  "  It  is  by  having  an 
occupation  for  all  idle  hours;  an  occupation  sufficient  to  fix 
your  attention,  so  that  you  can  pass  a  rainy  morning  with- 
out fretting  :  an  occupation  sufficient  to  distract  your  mind 
in  the  evening — I  mean  the  last  hour  or  so  before  going  to 
bed — and  yet  leave  no  puzzling  questions  behind  to  disturb 
you.  Now  my  occupation  is  to  read  carefully  and  strictly 
through  from  one  end  to  the  other  the  Encyclopedia  Britan- 
nica  Not  one  of  the  new  editions,  which  might  have  mod- 
ern speculation  in  it,  but  the  edition  of  1812,  in  forty  half- 
volumes.  I  am  quite  sufficiently  interested  for  the  moment 
in  Aberagavenny,  in  Abruzzo,  in  Abyssinia,  or  Aquilaus,  but 
yet  not  so  eagerly  as  to  interfere  with  my  sleep :  and  when 
I  have  got  away  through  to  the  end  of  the  twenty-fourth 


SHANDON  BELLS.  253 

volume,  I  can  bej^in  again  with  my  memory  free  from  a 
single  fact.  But  this  I  allow  myself,  I  must  tell  you  :  I  allow 
myself  the  use  of  a  number  of  small  hieroglyphics  that  I  put 
in  as  I  go  on ;  and  when  I  come  to  one  of  them  again  I  say 
to  myself,  '  Why  the  last  time  I  read  this  I  was  in  Mrs. 
Scott's  inn  at  Boscastle,  and  what  a  storm  was  blowing  ! '  or 
perhaps  another  tells  me  that  when  I  read  this  paragi-aph  I 
was  at  Ben  Rhydding,  just  come  back  from  a  stroll  across 
the  moors  :  or  perhaps  at  the  Bell  Inn  at  Henley,  when  all 
the  confusion  of  the  boat  races  was  about — " 

"  You  seem  to  spend  a  good  part  of  your  life  in  hotels," 
suggested  Fitzgerald. 

"  All  of  it — the  whole  of  it,  my  young  friend,"  was  the 
prompt  reply.  "  Why  should  I  have  the  trouble  of  keep- 
ing a  house  ?  I  have  that  done  for  me  by  those  who  have 
had  most  experience  of  it  of  any  people  in  the  country. 
Where  should  I  have  peace  and  quiet  if  I  were  worrying 
about  servants  and  smoky  chimneys  ?  Why  should  I  bother 
about  cooking?  If  I  do  not  like  the  cooking,  or  the  bed- 
rooms, or  the  direction  of  the  wind,  I  go  away  elsewhere. 
I  could  not  do  that  if  I  were  tied  to  one  house,  and  ham- 
pered with  my  own  servants.  I  agree  with  Shenstone.  I 
know  where  to  find  a  warm  welcome.  I  can  fit  my  habita- 
tion to  the  season  of  the  year.  At  one  time  I  am  in  the 
Isle  of  Wight ;  at  another,  in  the  West  Highlands.  I  may 
say  that  England,  Scotland,  and  Ireland  form  my  house ; 
aud  I  have  a  noble  staif  of  servants — in  numbers,  at  all 
events — who  please  me  tolerably  well.  And  you — at  your 
time  of  life  one  does  not  travel  for  pleasure.  May  I  be  so 
impertinent  as  to  ask  what  your  business  or  profession 
may  be?" 

"  I  don't  know  that  I  have  any  just  at  the  present 
moment,"  said  Fitzgerald,  absently.  "  I  have  been  think- 
ing of  going  to  America." 

"  Ah,"  said  his  neighbor,  regarding  him  with  curiosity. 
"  You  know  the  saying,  '  America  is  here  or  nowhere.'  " 

"  That  is  from  Wilhelm  Meister^''  said  Fitzgerald  (it 
was  a  wonder  to  himself  how  glad  he  was  to  talk  to  this 
old  gentleman,  in  however  mechanical  a  fashion ;  the  jour 
ney  had  been  a  lonesome  one).  "  And  I  never  could  un- 
derstand Wilhelm  Meister.  But  I  suppose,  as  it  is  an  epi 
gram,  it  must  be  clever.  What  I  know  is  that  here  the 
government  won't  give  you  one  hundred  and  sixty  acres 
of  freehold  land  for  five  shillings  an  acre." 


254  SHANDON  BELLS. 

"You  mean  to  farm,  then?  Pardon  me,  but — but  1 
should  not  have  thought  that  would  be  congenial  occupa- 
tion. You  spoke  of  Wilhelrn  Meister,"  said  the  old  gentle- 
man, in  his  precise  and  courteous  way.  "  What  do  you 
think  of  Werther,  then  ?  He  was  a  great  favorite  umong 
the  young  people  when  I  was  a  youth." 

"I  like  him  still  less,"  was  Fitzgerald's  frank  reply 
(though  his  eyes  sometimes  wandered  away,  as  though  he 
were  looking  at  other  and  distant  things).  "I  don't  like 
hothouse  sentiment.  I  don't  think  a  man  could  go  on  loving 
a  woman  whose  eyes  were  quite  cold  and  indifferent  toward 
him — concerned  about  bread  and  butter,  in  fact.  If  she 
had  once  loved  him,  even  before  her  marriage,  that  would 
have  been  different.  I  can  understand  a  man  going  on 
through  his  life  constant  to  his  love  for  a  woman  who  has 
once  loved  him,  and  whom  he  has  lost.  I  mean,"  he 
added,  hastily,  "  by  death.  I  mean  one  who  has  been 
taken  away  from  him  by  death,  and  whose  memory  is  a  life- 
long treasure.     I  don't  pity  him  ;  I  think  he  is  lucky." 

*'  What !  "  said  the  old  gentleman  ;  "  lucky  to  have  lost 
his  sweetheart  ?  " 

"  Yes,  before  he  found  her  out,"  said  Fitzgerald,  quite 
simply,  and  even  absently.  "  Then  nothing  can  upset  his 
idol.  She  is  always  beautiful  to  him,  and  true  ;  he  can 
have  no  suspicion  of  her ;  and  when  she  has  been  always 
good  and  true  and  believable,  he  thinks  other  women  may 
be.  That  is  something.  That  is,  when  she  dies  in  time — 
before  she  has  degraded  herself,  before  she  has  shown   him 

what  lies  womens'  eyes  can  tell " 

"  I  say,  my  young  friend,  that  is  a  very  extraordinary 
theory  for  one  of  your  age  to  hold,"  said  his  neighbor, 
staring  at  him. 

The  blood  rushed  to  Fitzgerald's  forehead  ;  he  had  been 
talking  almost  to  himself. 

"Oh,"  said  he,  hastily,  "there  is  something  in  what 
you  say  about  America.  Of  course  one  would  want  a  cer- 
tain amount  of  capital.  But  the  land  along  the  Platte 
Valley  is  excellent ;  and  I  fancy  that  these  pre-emption 

grants  are  free  from  taxation " 

"But  have  you  any  practical  experience  in  farmingy 
may  I  ask  ?  "  said  his  neighbor. 

Now  Fitzgerald  was  so  glad  to  get  away  from  that 
other  topic  on  wliich  he  had  haplessly  stumbled  that  he 
began  and  gave  this  old  gentleman  a  very  fair  notion  of 


SHAN  DON  BELLS,  255 

the  stale  of  his  affairs — of  his  struggles  to  obtain  a  place  in 
the  London  literary  world,  and  so  forth.  He  named  no 
names  except  the  names  of  newspapers. 

"  It  is  to  me  a  very  interesting  story,  for  a  reason  I 
will  tell  you  presently,"  said  his  companion.  "  May  I  ask 
if  you  chanced  to  meet  Mr.  Noel  ?  " 

Mr.  Xoel  was  the  editor  of  a  great  daily  newspaper  in 
London,  and  his  name  was  pretty  well  known. 

"  No,  I  never  did,"  said  Fitzgerald. 

"  Perhaps  you  did  not  apply  to  him  ?  " 

No  ;  I  had  no  means  of  introducing  myself,  oven  if  I 
had  thought " 

"Ah.     Well,  you  see,  it  happens  that  I  am  one  of  the 

proprietors  of  the and  I  should  be  delighted  to  give 

you  a  note  of  introduction  to  Mr.  Noel." 

Of  course  Fitzgerald  expressed  his  gratitude  for  this 
friendly  offer,  but  rather  avoided  accepting  it.  He  had 
learned  one  or  two  of  the  lessons  of  life.  His  imagination 
was  not  so  sanguine  nov\^.  The  time  was  over  when  a 
chance  conversation  in  an  Irish  inn  could  suddenly  reveal 
to  him  a  roseate  path  to  fame  and  fortune.  And,  besides, 
what  would  be  the  use  of  an  introduction  ?  Supposing  he 
were  to  be  allowed  to  write  for  that  great  newspaper,  what 
then?  For  whom?  Toward  what  end?  Who  was  to 
care  ? — He  had  what  money  he  wanted  ;  the  struggle  was 
over  ;  he  had  no  ambition  to  make  his  voice  heard  amid  the 
discordant  roar  of  London,  even  if  it  could  reach  all  the 
way  from  the  solitudes  of  Boat  of  Garry. 

Nevertheless,  he  felt  very  grateful  to  this  old  gentle- 
man for  the  distraction  his  conversation  had  afforded  dur- 
ing dinner,  for  it  was  with  a  renewed  and  agitated  fear  that 
he  passed  quickly  by  the  small  table  in  the  hall  where  the 
visitors'  book  lay.  For  one  brief  second  he  paused,  half 
determined  to  brave  the  discovery,  and  free  his  mind  from 
this  lurking  and  intolerable  dread  :  and  then  again  he 
turned,  mastering  his  vacillation,  and  resolved  to  give  way 
to  no  such  weakness.  Of  what  concern  was  it  to  him  ?  Let 
the  dead  past  bury  it's  dead.  He  had  put  that  black  cloud 
behind  him.  His  business  was  the  present.  And  here,  on 
this  lovely  summer  evening,  amid  the  quiet  beauties  of 
Glengariff,  was  there  not  enough  to  occupy  his  attention  ? 
He  would  do  as  these  others  were  doing ;  only  he  rather 
wanted  to  get  away  from  them  and  be  alone. 

He  got  a  boat,  told  the  boatman  he  might  go  where  he 


256  SHANDON  BELLS. 

pleased,  and  was  glad  to  be  away  from  the  shore  and  in 
silence.  Was  it  because  the  silence  was  so  intense,  that 
now  and  again  some  air  of  an  old  familiar  song  seemed  to 
come  floating  across  the  abyss  of  time,  speaking  of  other 
nights  and  other  scenes  that  his  heart  remembered  ?  This 
was  not  Inisheen  ;  this  was  Glengariff.  Look  at  the  beau- 
tiful still  bay,  at  the  wooded  islands,  at  the  solemn  hills. 
Far  up  in  tlie  northwestern  heavens  there  is  still  a  yellow 
glow  of  twilight ;  here  along  the  shore  everything  is  pale 
and  cold  and  clear.  In  under  the  islands  the  water  is  of  a 
glassy  blackness ;  but  the  ripples  catch  the  glow  from  the 
sky,  and  the  black  is  barred  with  a  faint  gold.  A  heavy 
splash  out  there  tells  that  a  salmon  has  leaped  ;  the  young 
herons  high  up  in  the  trees  croak  as  they  are  being  given 
their  evening  meal ;  in  by  the  rocks,  under  the  bushes,  the 
gray  wet  back  of  an  otter  comes  up  again  and  again  silently 
to  the  surface  until  he  finally  disappears.  Then  they  turn 
seaward  (a  white  ghost  of  a  heron  rises  from  a  creek,  and 
shows  itself  for  a  second  or  two  crossing  the  shadows),  and 
make  away  down  by  a  Martello  tower;  the  night  deepening 
m  silence  ;  a  faint  gray  mist  gathering  along  the  lower  hills; 
the  twilight  still  strong  enough  to  show,  faraway,  the  Inrge 
mainsail  of  a  yacht  lying  at  her  moorings — a  phantom 
thing  on  the  dark  Expanse  of  sea.  And  then  slowly  home 
again,  over  the  clear  shallows  ;  and  as  one  nears  the  land- 
ing place  a  slight  stirring  of  wind  brings  a  scent  of  roses — 
from  the  hedge  there.  It  is  a  gracious  evening.  The  stars 
come  out  one  by  one ;  the  silver  sickle  of  the  moon  has 
arisen  in  the  south ;  there  is  just  enough  of  ripple  along  the 
shores  to  make  a  soft  and  continuous  murmur.  And  the 
roses  make  sweet  the  night  air. 

But  what  was  this  that  went  through  his  heart  like  fire  ? 
He  was  standing  by  the  rose  hedge,  alone — for  nearly  all 
the  people  liad  gone  indoors — dreamily  listening  to  the  low 
jBiurmur  of  the  water.  But  this  other  sound  ?  There  were 
two  people  coming  along  the  road,  and  but  vaguely  seen  ia 
the  gathering  darkness,  and  they  were  quietly  singing  to- 
gether one  of  Mendelssohn's  duets.  Did  he  not  know  it  ? 
— the  pain  and  the  sweetness  and  the  longing  of  it !  And 
then,  somehow,  a  bewilderment  seized  him :  surely  if  he 
were  to  hasten  away  at  this  moment — if  he  were  to  hasten 
away  to  Cork,  and  ascend  the  hill,  and  enter  the  small 
liouse  there,  he  would  find  that  all  this  black  nightmare  of 
the  past  few  weeks  had  been  a  ghastly  dream.     It  could 


SHAN-DON  BELLS,  257 

not  be  that  Kitty  was  a  traitor ;  that  she  had  gone  away 
from  him — Kitty  whose  eyes  had  looked  into  his,  who  liad 
pledged  her  life  and  her  love  to  him  in  the  glen  at  Tn- 
isheen,  who  had  trembled  in  his  arms,  and  subbed  and 
kissed  him  as  she  bade  him  good-by  at  the  shore.  He  would 
escape  from  this  frightful  thing;  he  would  go  to  Kitty  her- 
self. And  the  next  second  a  sudden  strange  transforma- 
tion takes  place  :  he  is  in  a  vision  ;  Glengariff  has  disap- 
peared ;  he  is  at  Cork;  this  is  Audley  Place  1  Look!  he 
opens  the  small  iron  gate,  and  goes  up  the  pathway,  and 
rinojs  the  bell.  The  sound  of  the  piano  within  ceases;  it 
is  Kitty's  footstep  that  is  in  the  lobby.  "  Well,  sir,  liavo 
you  come  for  your  singing  lesson?  "I  have  come  for  a 
great  many  lessons,  Kitty."  They  go  hand  in  hand  into 
the  warm  little  room.  Miss  Patience  is  absent ;  the  piano 
is  open. 

"  Which  one  ? "  says  Kitty.  "  O  wert  thou  in  tlie 
cauld  blast?'  N");  you  can  manage  that  pretty  well. 
Some  day,  when  literature  gives  out,  we  may  have  to  sing 
that  together  in  a  concert-room  ;  and  then  you'll  see  whether 
anybody  else  can  give  you  a  lead  with  the  accompaniment 
as  well  as  I  can.  No;  we'll  try  'O  would  that  my  love 
were  whispered.'  !Now  let  my  hair  alone,  and  attend  to 
your  business ;  and  please  don't  bawl  as  if  you  were  at 
Limerick  races,  but  sing  as  if  you  were  singing  to  me —  at 
night — and  just  us  two  in  the  whole  world ^" 

[Surely,  if  these  two  people — no  doubt  young  people 
fond  enough  of  each  other — who  were  at  this  moment  com- 
ing along  the  road  to  the  Glengariff  Hotel,  could  have 
known  what  agony  they  were  inflicting  on  one  who  wished 
not  to  listen  but  who  could  not  refuse  to  listen,  surely 
they  would  have  ceased  their  careless  humming  of  the  old 
familiar  air.] 

He  is  standing  by  Kitty's  side.  She  strikes  the  first 
notes  of  the  music ;  and  he  loses  his  voice  in  hers,  so 
anxious  is  he  to  hear  her  : 

"  O  would  that  my  love  were  whispered 

To  thee  in  a  single  sigh  ; 
Or  murmuring  in  sweetest  music, 
On  swift  zephyr's  wing  could  fly—' 

On  zephyr's  wing " 

The  music  stops. 

"Dear  me,"  she  says,  "what  are   you  doing?     What 


258  sir  AND  ON  BELLS. 

business  have  you  with  that?  Don't  you  see  that's  mine? 
I  believe  you  are  singing  by  ear,  and  not  looking  at  the 
words  at  all " 

"  They  are  not  worth  much  when  you  do  look  at  thcra, 
are  they,  Kitty?"  he  says. 

"  That  is  not  my  business,  nor  yours,"  she  answers, 
with  the  asperity  of  a  music-mistress.  "  We  have  got  to 
Bing  the  duet ;  you  can  criticize  the  poetry  afterward. 
Now  you  come  in  at  the  proper  place — and  leave  my  hair 
alone  will  you?  Miss  Patience  asked  me  if  I  had  combed 
it  with  a  furze-brush  the  other  night.     Now " 

And  so  they  finish  that  verse,  and  get  through  the 
next  verv  fairly.     But  presently  when  they  come  to 

"  And  even  in  the  depths  of  thy  slumber, 
When  night  spreads  her  sliadowy  beams,'' 

Kitty  finds  herself  singing  alone,  She  ceases,  and  turns 
round  and  lifts  up  her  soft  pretty  black  eyes  in  astonish- 
ment and  affected  anger. 

"  Well  ?     What  is  it  now  ?     Why  have  you  stopped  ?  " 
"  It  is  so  much  nicer  to  hear  you  singing  alone,  Kitty ; 
I  don't  want  to  spoil  it." 

"  Am  I  to  sing  a  duet  by  myself  ?  " 
"  I  don't  care  what  it  is,  so  long  as  you  sing  it." 
*'  I  thought  you  might  have  had  enough  of  my  singing 
by  this  time." 

"  Perhaps  you  will  be  thinking  that  I  have  had  enough 
of  you  ?  " 

"  That's  what  you  will  be  saying  some  day,  at  all 
events,"  she  answers,  saucily.  "And  soon  enough.  Oh,  I 
know  what  men  are.  Sighing  their  lives  out  over  a  little 
bit  of  your  hair ;  and  then  you  marry  them,  and  before 
you  know  where  you  are  they  wouldn't  walk  the  length  of 
a  drapers  shop  to  buy  a  pair  of  gloves  for  you." 

"But  you  have  not  been  married  so  very  many  times, 
Kitty?" 

"  Don't  be  absurd.  I  speak  from  observation.  And  I 
know  you'll  be  just  like  the  rest.  But  never  mind  ;  it's 
very  nice  in  the  meantime ;  and  you're  looking  such  a 
bonny  boy  to-night  and — and,  in  fact,  I'm  going  to  be 
very  kind  to  you,  as  I  always  am ;  and  make  you  misera- 
ble ;  and  if  his  highness  will  condescend  to  fetch  me  that 
book  over  there,  his  hunble  attendant  will  sing  anything 
ne  chooses " 


SFTANDON  BELLS.  259 

He  places  his  hand  on  her  shoulder. 

"  And  do  you  really  think  Kitty,  that  we  may  grow  in- 
different to  each  other  ?  " 

"  Don't  tease  ;  but  bring  the  book." 

"  I  want  you  to  look  at  me  and  say  so. '  I  know  what  you 
mean  when  1  see  your  eyes." 

She  keeps  down  her  head. 

"  For  I  have  heard  strange  things  since  I  went  to  Lon- 
don ;  but  about  women  only.  I  have  heard  it  said  that  a 
woman's  eyes  are  always  wandering ;  that  if  you  look  down 
a  table  d'hote  you  will  soon  find  that  out;  that  it  is  not 
safe  to  leave  a  woman  by  herself  who  has  a  loving  heart  ; 
that  she  is  likely,  in  your  absence,  to  become  gently  inter- 
ested in  somebody  else " 

She  removes  his  hand  from  her  shoulder  with  a  quick 
gesture. 

**It  isn't  true,  Kitty?"  he  says,  with  gentleness. 

*'  I  know  the  man  you  mean — and  I  hate  him  ?  "  she  an- 
swers, fiercely. 

"It  isn't  true,  then,  that  women  are  like  that?" 

And  then — ah !  the  thought  of  it ! — she  leaps  to  her 
feet,  and  seizes  his  arms,  and  there  is  a  proud  indignation 
in  the  white,  upturned,  quivering  face ;  and  there  is  some- 
thing like  tears  in  the  black  soft  eyes,  and  the  pretty  lips 
are  tremulous. 

"  Read  my  eyes,  read  my  heart  and  ray  soul,  and  say  if 
you  can  think  such  a  thing  of  me  !  " 

And  then —  But  this  dream  of  what  was  bygone  was 
like  madness  to  the  brain  ;  he  could  no  longer  think  of  it ; 
and  happily  these  two  people  had  passed  into  the  house, 
and  he  was  once  more  alone  with  the  silence  of  the  night. 

But  even  here  he  could  find  no  rest ;  the  darkness  was 
too  full  of  pictures.  He  passed  into  the  warm  light  of  the 
hotel,  and  in  the  hall  met  the  old  gentleman  who  had  talked 
with  him  at  dinner,  and  who  was  now  chatting  with  the 
landlady. 

"  Ah,  here  you  are,  I  see  ;  I  have  been  wondering  where 
you  had  got  to.     Here  is  the  letter  to  Mr.  Noel." 

"  Oh,  I  am  very  much  obliged  to  you." 

"  You  will  find  him  a  most  excellent  fellow ;  and  it  is 
not  often  I  try  his  good-nature  in  this  way." 

"  I  think  you  arc  doing  too  much  for  a  stranger,"  said 
Fitzgerald,  frankly.  "  I  know  something  of  newspaper 
offices.     I  know  editors  are  not  fond  of  letters  of  introduo 


260  SI/A  A' DON  BELLS, 

fion.    Supi)Osing  that  I  were  to  begin  and  pester  the  life  out 
of  this  poor  man  ?  " 

"  Oh,  1  am  not  afraid,"  said  the  old  gentleman,  good- 
naturedly.  *'  Something  in  your  conversation  at  dinner 
showed  me  you  had  an  old  head  on  young  shoulders.  You 
will  see"  he  added,  speaking  in  a  lower  voice,  and,  in  fact, 
in  a  somewhat  mysterious  manner,  "  that  I  have  written  to 
Mr.  Noel  merely  as  a  friend.  There  are  a  number  of  pro- 
})rietors,  you  understand,  and  as  our  interests  might  be  di- 
verse, we  have  agreed  never  to  intermeddle  with  the  con- 
duct of  the  paper,  except  on  such  large  points  as  the  board 
may  be  summoned  to  consider." 

"  I  hope,"  said  Fitzgerald,  pleasantly,  *'  that  the  declar- 
ation of  dividends  is  one  of  these  large  points." 

"  Marvellous !"  said  the  other,  putting  a  finger  on  hia 
companion's  arm  to  be  emphasize  his  tragic  whisper, 
"  Marvellous.  Not  a  word  to  a  human  soul ;  but  last  half- 
year  the  manager  announced  to  us  a  dividend  of  eighty-five 
per  cent,  on  the  original  capital  I  Think  of  that !  Now  of 
course  we  don't  want  to  intermeddle  with  a  concern  that 
is  paying  like  that ;  and  this  note  does  not  recommend  you 
ais  a  writer  to  Mr.  Noel,  but  merely  tells  him  that  I  had  the 
pleasure  of  meeting  you  at  the  table  d'hote  here,  that  you 
knew  something  of  literary  affairs,  and  asking  to  be  allowed 
to  introduce  you.     That  is  all.     You  understand  ?" 

"  Oh,  perfectly.     I  am  very  much  obliged  to  you." 

"  Although  I  am  a  pretty  withered  old  stick  myself,'* 
aid  the  old  gentleman,  facetiously,  *'  I  believe  in  the  infu- 
•ion  of  new  blood  ;  so  does  our  manager — a  most  shrewd 
and  excellent  man.  'New  blood,' I  say  to  him:  *  When 
you  can  get  it,'  says  he.  N'ow  I  am  off  to  my  final  hour  at 
tli<3  Enci/clopcedia.  Where  was  I  ?  Oh,  yes,  at  '  London  :  * 
the  account  of  the  great  fire  ;  very  interesting,  I  assure  you. 
But,"  he  added,  with  impressiveness,  "  not  too  interesting. 
I  shall  not  sleep  any  the  less  soundly  to-night  because  I 
have  been  reading  about  the  baker's  shop  in  Pudding 
Lane." 

"  Good-night  to  you,  then,"  said  Fitzgerald. 

''  But  not  yet,  if  you  are  coming  into  the  drawing-room. 
Of  course  you  are ;  there  are  some  charming  young  ladies 
there.  I  have  my  volume  there,  too ;  their  chatting  or 
singing  does  not  interrupt  me;  on  the  contrary,  is  it  not  a 
pleasant  variety  to  look  up  from  Ancient  Thebes  or  the 
wars  of  Alexander  and  see  a  nicely  rounded  cheek  and 


s/iaavjojV  bells.  ^Cl 

pretty  eyelids  bent  over  a  book  ?  I  always  keep  my  volume 
there,  though  once  or  twice  the  wicked  young  creaturea 
have  hidden  it  out  of  mischief." 

So  he  went  off  and  into  the  warm,  bright  little  drawing- 
room,  and  Fitzgerald  was  left  in  the  hall.  He  had  u 
reason  for  lingering,  which  he  dared  scarcely  confess  to  him- 
self. 

"Youltave  a  good  many  people  here,"  he  said,  cheer- 
fullv,  to  the  landlady,  or  manageress,  "for  this  time  of  the 
year."  • 

"  Oh,  yerf,  sir.  It  is  rather  a  favorite  time.  Many  peo- 
ple like  to  go  through  and  see  Killarney  while  the  haw- 
thorn is  still  out." 

He  was  turnmg  over  the  visitors*  book,  his  face  and  man- 
ner careless,  his  heart  throbbing  with  a  nameless  dread. 

"  Is  Boat  of  Garry  a  pretty  place  ?"  he  asked. 

"  Oh,  yes,  sir ;  I  believe  so,  sir  ;  I  have  never  been  there 
myself." 

He  did  not  hear  that  answer.  He  had  come  to  three 
names,  two  of  them  bracketed  together,  all  written  in  the 
sam^  hand  : 

Miss  Romayne  ....         \ 

Miss  Patience    ....         )  Cork. 

E.    L.   Cobbs    ....  Liverpool. 

He  shut  the  book  quickly,  without  looking  round :  he 
dared  not  show  the  landlady  his  ghastly  face.  He  took 
refuge  in  the  drawing-room,  concealing  himself  in  a  corner, 
with  his  hands  clinched  on  the  newspaper  he  held  up  before 
him  ;  the  letters  he  saw  before  him  seemed  to  be  printed  in 
blood.  And  then  there  was  a  kind  of  suffocation  in  the  air  of 
the  place  ;  was  not  the  night  hot?  Some  people  were  laugh- 
ing ;  it  was  a  strange  sound.  A  chord  was  struck  on  the  piano, 
and  there  was  silence.  Two  voices  Avere  heard — two  girls' 
voices — one  soprano,  the  other  contralto — and  what  must 
they  sing  but  "  O  wert  thou  in  the  cauld  blast "  ?  His 
clinched  hands  were  trembling :  the  agony  was  too  great. 
But  he  managed  to  read  on — such  reading? — such  blind, 
wild  fixing  the  eyes  on  words  that  had  no  meaning — until 
the  musical  piece  was  finished  ;  and  then  he  slunk  out,  his 
face  averted,  from  the  room,  and  found  safety  and  coolness 
and  time  to  think  in  his  small  apartment  upstairs. 

But  even  here,  as  he  sat  down,  strange  fancies  that  he 
strove  to  banish  came  into  his  head.      Why  did  he  look  so 


262  SnA.\DON  BELLS, 

intently  at  the  window-sill,  at  the  dressing-table,  at  the 
mirror  ?  Tlie  mirror  can  reflect  many  faces,  but  no  trace 
remains.  This  bedroom  must  have  been  breathed  in  by 
many  a  visitor ;  but  here  was  the  sweet  fresh  air  of  the  night 
blowing  in  at  the  open  window.  What  idle  fancies  were 
these !  The  room  was  but  as  another  room.  He  got  a 
book,  held  it  up  against  the  light,  and  began  to  read. 

He  read  nothing.  The  window  was  still  open,  the  soft 
ni^ht  air  blowing  in,  and  yet  the  room  seemed  to  choke  him. 
•Bnt  then  all  at  once  he  seemed  to  know  that  Kitty  had  oc- 
cupied this  room.  She  had  kissed  her  lover  out  there  in  the 
passage ;  she  had  come  in  here  to  be  alone  with  her  perjured 
heart ;  she  had  looked  in  the  mirror  to  see  whether  her  eyes 
had  been  lying  as  bewitchingly  as  was  their  wont.  These 
were  the  eyes  with  which  she  had  sought  him  out  when, 
breathless  and  smiling,  she  had  come  down  to  the  Cork  sta- 
tion to  see  him  away — glad  no  doubt,  that  he  was  going, 
and  knowing  that  he  would  trouble  her  no  more.  She  had 
taken  back  her  love,  her  pledged  love,  from  him  ;  but  she 
could  give  him  a  basket,  and  salad  cut  with  her  own  hands. 
Was  she  not  kind  ?  Was  she  not  generous?  Had  she  not 
a  woman's  thoughtfulness  and  pretty  consideration  and  af- 
fectionate ways  ?  He  could  see  "her  smiling,  and  kissing 
her  hand  to  him,  and  waving  her  handkerchief,  as  the  train 
slowly  left  the  station  ;  she  was  thankful,  no  doubt,  she  had 
escaped  ;  she  had  got  through  the  hypocrisy ;  her  eyes  had 
met  his,  but  he  had  not  read  down  deep  enough,  nor  seen 
the  treachery  of  her  heart. 

The  air  of  this  room  seemed  contaminated  ;  he  could  not 
remain  in  it.  Was  it  on  that  window-sill  there  that  she  had 
leaned  her  arms,  on  the  still  morning,  and  looked  out  ?  Oh, 
lier  eyes  were  pretty  enough  ;  any  one  passing  along  the 
road  and  noticing  her  would  say  that  was  a  charming  enough 
face.  Any  kisses  to  sell  this  morning  fair  young  lady  ? — it 
Beems  that  these  things  are  bought  nowadays.  Is  the  price 
high  ?  Must  one  hail  from  Manchester,  or  Liverpool,  or 
Bome  such  commercial  place,  before  one  can  become  a  pur- 
chaser? Hearts,  too :  do  they  find  quick  buyers,  seeing 
they  are  so  easily  transferable?  Bah! — she  is  no  woman  fit 
for  a  man's  love — throw  her  out  to  the  dogs,  the  smirking 
Jezebel ! 

He  puts  down  his  book  ;  he  has  not  been  reading  much. 

Why  this  contempt,  then  ?      Why  this  scorn  of  poor 

Kitty,  who  (when  she  was  at  Inisheen  at  least)  did  her  best 


SHANDON  BELLS.  2G3 

to  l)e  loving  ?  Poor  little  Kitty !  the  small,  trembling,  over- 
fond  heart  mistook  its  strength.  No  doubt  she  wished  to 
be  steadfast  and  true.  Perhaps  she  tried  for  a  time.  But 
she  was  a  creature  of  the  sunshine ;  the  warm  little  heart 
went  dancing  and  fluttering  on  ;  what  was  it  to  her  that  be- 
hind her  lay  a  man's  broken  life  ? 

No,  he  could  not  remain  in  this  room  ;  the  objects  in  it 
were  horrible ;  the  air  stifled  him.  He  went  downstairs 
again,  got  hold  of  somebody  to  whom  he  made  the  excuse 
of  sleeplessness,  and  so  had  the  door  opened,  and  went  out 
wandering  into  the  darkness. 

And  now  a  breeze  had  sprung  up  in  the  south,  and  all 
the  night  was  awake.  The  wind  murmured  and  trembled, 
through  the  dark  branches  of  the  trees  :  there  was  a  sound 
along  the  shore  ;  and  the  sad  mother  earth  was  listening  to 
the  wail  of  her  daughter  the  sea.  Only  far  away  in  the 
stars — those  calm  and  shining  and  benignant  orbs — did  there 
seem  to  be  peace,  if  only  one  could  reach  them  through  the 
gateway  of  the  grave. 


CHAPTER  XXIV. 

ALONE. 


Next  morning  the  little  old  gentleman  with  the  dried- 
up  face  and  the  brown  wig  was  standing  in  the  veranda 
outside  the  hotel  when  the  Boat  of  Garry  carriage — a  large 
open  landau,  with  a  pair  of  smart-looking  grays — drove  up 
to  the  door,  and  Fitzgerald  came  out.  Master  Willie,  who 
had  been  taught  by  John  Ross  to  observe  the  expressions  of 
the  human  face  as  closely  as  the  colors  of  palings  and  Chel- 
sea cabbage  gardens,  instantly  perceived  that  his  friend  and 
patron  of  the  preceding  evening  was  surprised — more  than 
that,  that  he  seemed  to  have  some  misgiving. 

"  This  isn't  newspaper  work  I  am  engaged  on  at  pres- 
ent "  said  the  younger  man,  promptly,  as  his  luggage  was 
being  handed  up  to  the  coachman  on  the  box.  "  I  am  going 
as  a  sort  of  land-agent  or  surveyor,  to  see  whether  a  house 
and  a  shooting  down  here  are  all  right,  before  they  are  of- 
fered to  a  tenant.'' 


264  SHANDON  BELLS. 

"Oh,  I  see,"  the  old  gentleman  remarked,  as  he  scanned 
the  turn-out.  "  He  won't  find  fault  with  the  carriage,  at  all 
events.  A  landau  is  the  proper  sort  of  carriage  for  this 
changeable  sort  of  climate ;  but  heavy,  eh,  on  the  hilly  roads  ? 
They  seem  a  strong  pair  of  beasts,  though." 

"  Good-by,"  said  Fitzgerald,  as  he  shook  hands  with  him. 
*'  If  ever  I  have  the  courage  to  try  the  newspapers  again,  I 
may  make  use  of  the  note  of  introduction  you  were  kind 
enough  to  give  me." 

"  It  will  be  an  easier  experiment  than  going  out  to  Ne- 
braska for  your  one  hundred  and  sixty  acres  of  land,  eh  ? 
Don't  you  think  so  ?  " 

Then  Fitzgerald  got  into  the  landau  ;  and  when  the  near 
horse  (whose  name  he  afterwards  discovered  to  be  Welling- 
ton) had  reared  and  pranced  on  the  ground  for  a  bit,  olf 
went  both  of  them  like  a  bolt  from  a  bow,  apparently  well 
accustomed  to  the  weight  of  this  spacious  carriage.  The 
morning  was  fine,  though  there  was  a  strange  luminous  opa- 
city in  the  air — a  sort  of  thin  sea-fog  suffused  with  sunlight — 
that  hung  over  the  woods  and  hills  like  a  tender  bridal  veil. 
The  air  was  soft  to  the  cheeks  ;  tlie  warm  wind  was  from 
the  south.  If  this  were  to  be  banishment,  it  was  banishment 
to  a  very  beautiful  and  gracious  part  of  the  world. 

And  indeed,  as  Fitzgerald  lay  back  in  the  soft,  blue- 
cushioned  carriage,  he  had  an  uneasy  sense  that  the  whole 
performance  was  very  much  like  setting  a  beggar  on  horse- 
back. He  regarded  the  two  white  buttons  on  the  brown 
coat  of  the  coachman,  and  wondered  whether  he  could  not 
induce  the  human  being  within  that  garment  to  be  a  little 
more  companionable,  and  less  elaborately  respectful.  So  he 
hit  on  the  device  of  adding  a  trifle  to  his  Irish  accent ;  and 
he  perceived  that,  by  slow  degrees,  the  coachman,  who  was 
a  good-looking  man  of  about  thirty,  permitted  a  more 
friendly  look  to  come  into  his  eyes  when  answering  ques- 
tions.    At  last  Fitzgerald  said  to  him, — 

"What  is  your  name,  now  ?  " 

"  Murtough  Dunne,  sorr." 

"But  what  do  they  generally  call  you?" 


*'  Very  well,  then,  Murtough,  you  stop  the  horses  for  a 
minute,  and  I'll  get  out  and  come  up  on  the  box,  for  I  want 
you  to  tell  me  about  the  country." 

"  As  ye  plase,  sorr." 

So  Fitzgerald  got  up  on  the  box  j  but  he  knew  better 


SHANDON  BELLS.  266 

than  to  begin  on  the  subject  of  topography.  He  praised  the 
look  of  the  grays.  Wellington,  he  discovered,  was  the 
showier  of  the  two,  and  always  made  a  little  fuss  about 
starting ;  but  Dan  was  the  one  for  real  hard  work.  Dan 
had  taken  the  dog-cart  sixty  miles  in  one  day,  over  bad 
country,  and  was  as  fresh  as  paint  after  it.  Dan  was  hia 
honor's  favorite.  Bnt  indeed — as  appeared  from  hints  con- 
tinually cropping  up  in  this  desultory  talk  about  horses,  and 
carriages,  and  hay,  and  shooting  parties,  and  what  not 
- — his  honor,  that  is  to  say  the  late  owner  of  the  place, 
seemed  to  have  had  a  great  many  favorites,  both  among 
the  human  beings  and  the  animals  around  him,  and 
to  have  left  behind  him  a  reputation  for  constant  kindness 
and  consideration.  He  was  quick-tempered,  it  appeared^ 
but  his  wrath  was  over  with  a  word,  and  there  was  nothing 
the  people  round  about  would  not  do  to  serve  him  and  to 
please  him. 

"  That  made  it  easy  for  the  keeper,  then  ?  "  said  Fitz- 
gerald. "  No  trampling  of  nests  in  the  spring,  no  chasing 
of  leverets  by  the  dogs  ?  " 

"True  for  you,  sorr,"  said  the  coachman.  "There  was 
John  O'Leary,  up  at  the  Knockgarven  farm,  and  he  had  a 
dog — sure,  sorr,  there  never  was  such  a  rascal  for  hunting 
and  worrying  and  shtaling  both  bird  and  baste.  What  does 
he  do  but  bring  down  the  dog,  wid  a  string  round  his  neck, 
and  ties  him  up  in  the  yard,  and  laves  word  for  his  honor  to 
shoot  him  or  drown  him  as  he  plased.  '  Bedad,'  says 
Micky " 

"But  who  is  Micky?" 

"  Sure  the  keeper,  sorr.  *  Bedad,'  says  he,  '  his  honor 
■will  do  neither  the  one  nor  the  other  whin  he  comes  home ; 
and  wid  you  lave  I'll  get  rid  of  the  baste  myself.  '  " 

"  And  I  suppose  the  gentleman  up  at  Knockgarven 
expected  a  little  compensation  ? "  Fitzgerald  said  suspi- 
ciously. 

Murtough  grinned,  and  said  nothing. 

"  How  much  was  it 't  " 

"  I  tink  it  was  tree  pounds,  sorr,  his  honor  gave  him,  and 
the  cur  not  worth  the  sound  of  a  sixpence !  " 

In  this  way  Fitzgerald  managed  to  obtain  a  large  amount 
of  information  about  Boat  of  Garry  and  its  neigliborhood, 
and  the  long  drive  through  occasional  woods,  or  along  high 
and  stoney  hill  roads  (with  always  the  far  Atlantic  in  the 
south),  was  rendered  cheerful  enough.  He  made  it  a  matter 


266  SHANDON  BELLS, 

of  business  to  obtain  these  particulars.  He  had  undertaken 
a  commission,  as  it  were.  And  he  tried  hard  to  devote  his 
whole  time  and  thinking  to  this  duty,  so  that  amongst 
inquiries  about  the  price  of  oats,  and  the  probable  introduc- 
tion of  hay-drying  machines,  and  the  different  kinds  of 
nails  for  horseshoes,  and  so  forth,  other  and  less  immediate 
things  might  be  definitely  shut  out  and  forgotten.  Was  not 
this  a  new  and  strange  experience  for  him — to  be  installed 
as  master  of  a  house  that  he  had  never  seen  ?  How  would 
he  get  on  with  the  other  people  about  ?  This  man  seemed 
civil  and  lionest,  and  was  now  rather  more  friendly,  while 
always  preserving  a  careful  respect.  And  he  could  report 
that  he  at  least  had  not  been  neglectful  of  his  duties :  the 
horses  seemed  in  excellent  condition  ;  the  metal  of  the  har- 
ness was  brilliantly  polished  ;  the  carriage  tliroughout  was 
as  ,spick  and  span  as  it  could  be — much  more  so  than  is  at 
all  common  with  carriages  in  remote  parts  of  the  country 
where  they  get  rough  and  constant  usage. 

By  and  by,  however,  the  sunlight  seemed  to  withdraw 
itself  from  the  thin  mist;  it  grew  darker  a  little  ;  then  the 
moisture  in  the  air  was  felt  in  jjoints ;  at  last  a  fine  rain 
began  to  fall. 

"  Will  your  honor  be  for  going  inside  now  ?  "  Murtough 
askecl. 

"  Oh  no,"  was  the  answer.  "  But  I  will  hold  the  reins 
while  you  close  the  carriage.  I  know  the  south  of  Ireland. 
Besides,  I  have  a  waterproof." 

And  very  soon  he  had  to  put  on  that  waterproof ;  for 
the  soft  small  rain  now  fell  steadily,  and  the  outlines  of  the 
hills  and  the  reaches  of  the  lake  were  blurred  over  or 
altogether  invisible,  and  the  skies  were  growing  dark. 
Murtough  had  a  waterproof  also,  but  he  did  not  seem  to 
think  this  rain  suflUcient  to  injure  his  livery.  So  the  pair 
of  grays  trotted  on  monotonously,  or  splashed  through 
2)uddles;  and  the  rain  fell  more  slightly  or  more  closely  as 
the  clouds  came  drifting  over  from  the  hills  ;  and  all  the 
time  Fitzgerald  was  interesting  himself  in  particulars  about 
the  Boat  of  Garry  household,  or  asking  the  name  of  this  or 
that  feature  in  the  ever  changing  and  widening  and  drip- 
ping landscape. 

At  length  there  was  a  sharp  dip  down  from  the  high- 
road, and  they  passed  through  an  avenue  of  trees.  Here 
the  landau  dragged  heavily  through  the  mud,  and  there  was 
a  pattering  of  big  rain-drops  from  the  branches.     Then  they 


SHANDON  BELLS,  267 

swung  into  the  open  again,  passed  through  an  open  iron 
gate,  drove  briskly  along  a  pathway  of  wet  gravel,  and 
drew  up  at  the  door  of  the  house  of  which  Fitzgerald  was 
to  be  the  temporary  master. 

It  was  a  plain,  square,  two-storied  building,  with  an  un- 
pretentious porch  of  wood  and  glass.  The  shrubbery 
around  and  the  bit  of  lawn  looked  trim  and  well  cared  for; 
there  was  no  sign  of  neglect  about  the  place.  And  when, 
leaving  his  dripping  waterproof  in  the  porch,  he  walked 
into  the  hall,  and  then  into  the  dining-room  (where  there 
was  a  fire,  despite  the  fact  that  the  weather  had  been  un- 
usually warm,  even  for  the  first  week  in  June),  everything 
around  seemed  neat  and  clean' and  well  looked  after.  There 
was  not  the  slightest  air  of  neglect  about  the  place ;  on  the 
contrary,  one  would  have  expected  a  trim  house-mistress  to 
make  her  appearance  to  welcome  the  visitor.  There  were 
preparations  for  luncheon  on  the  table.  There  was  a  pair 
of  slippers  on  the  fender.  Beside  the  easy-chair  at  the  cor- 
ner of  the  fireplace  stood  a  smaller  table,  on  which  some 
books  and  old  magazines  were  methodically  arranged. 

*'  I  beg  your  pardon,  sir,"  some  one  said  at  the  door. 

The  voice  sent  the  blood  to  his  heart — it  was  so  like 
another  voice  that  he  now  regarded  as  being  beyond  the 
grave.  He  turned  quickly.  But  this  person  was  merely  a 
quiet-looking,  rather  pretty  young  woman  of  about  six  or 
eight  and  twenty,  whose  black  hair  and  blue  eyes  made  him 
conclude  she  was  Irish.  But  then  he  recollected.  Was  not 
this  the  English  maid  whose  fellow-servants,  according  to 
Mrs,  Chetwynd  had  considered  to  have  made  such  a  fright- 
ful mesalliance  in  marrying  the  good-natured  Irish  coach- 
man ? 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  sir,"  said  she,  in  very  pretty  En- 
glish. "  I  was  having  your  things  taken  upstairs.  Would 
you  please  to  have  luncheon  now  ?  " 

*'  Oh  yes,"  he  said,  "  any  time.     I  am  in  no  hurry." 

"  I  hope  you  will  find  everything  to  your  satisfaction. 
Bir, 

"  Oh,  I  am  sure  of  that.     I  am  not  particular." 

"  If  you  would  be  so  kind  as  to  tell  me  anything  you 
would  like  different,  we  could  get  it.  We  have  had  two 
letters  from  Mrs.  Clietwynd,  sir,  and  Mr.  McGee  has  been 
here  several  times.     I  hope  you  will  be  comfortable,  sir." 

"  Ohj  no  doubt,  no  doubt.  You  are  Mrs. — Mrs.  Dunne 
I  suppose  ?  " 


268  SHANDON  BELLS. 

**  Yes,  sir.  My  husband  said  this  morning  he  thought 
it  would  rain  ;  and  so  I  had  the  fire  lit,  sir,  in  case  you 
might  have  some  things  damp." 

"  Oh,  thank  you,  but  I  don't  think  there  will  be  any 
need  to  keep  up  the  fire  in  this  warm  weather." 

"  Thank  you,  sir,"  said  she^  and  withdrew. 

He  went  to  the  window.  It  was  a  pretty  place  despite 
the  wet.  It  was  so  quiet  and  still  that  you  could  not  well 
tell  whether  the  continuous  sh — sh — sh  outside  was  the 
falling  of  rain  or  the  murmur  of  the  brooklet  that  splashed 
along  unseen  behind  the  bushes  at  the  foot  of  the  lawn. 
The  rain,  too,  had  made  everything  look  even  more  richly 
green  than  it  normally  is  at  this  time  of  the  year,  from  the 
luxuriant  rhododendrons,  whose  glossy  starlike  leaves  were 
all  shining  wet,  to  the  belt  of  trees,  maple  and  chestnut  and 
ash,  that  made  a  circle  round  the  place.  But  through 
these  trees  there  were  spacious  openings,  and  through  some 
you  looked  in  one  direction  over  broad  meadows  and  one 
or  two  patches  of  wood,  while  in  another  direction  a  broad 
pale  silver  streak  between  the  foliage  showed  where  the 
shallow  waters  of  a  creek  came  up  from  Bantry  Bay.  And 
always  in  this  loneliness  was  the  murmur  of  the  rain,  rising 
a  little  as  the  wind  stirred  in  the  branches,  and  then  again 
subsiding  into  a  sort  of  semi-silence,  in  which  one  could 
hear  the  sharp  twittering  of  birds  or  the  lowing  of  kine  at 
some  distant  farm. 

Again  there  was  a  knock  at  the  door,  and  he  started. 
He  wished  this  woman's  voice  had  not  that  peculiar  tone  in 
it.  He  wished  she  had  the  croak  of  a  raven.  Was  it  not 
enough  that  this-  soft  veil  of  rain  was  but  as  a  screen  that 
seemed  to  hide  behind  it  the  fancies  and  visions  and  pic- 
tures of  other  days  ?  That  is  the  saddest  thing-about  rain  ; 
it  makes  the  landscape  look  far  away  ;  it  invites  the  imagi- 
nation ;  the  world  looks  vague — just  as  the  ghost  of  a 
woman's  face  may  look,  if  you  think  of  it  through  tears. 

"  Come  in,"  said  he,  sharply. 

It  was  Mrs.  Dunne ;  and  there  was  an  older  woman 
visible,  bringing  some  things  to  a  table  in  the  hall.  He 
turned  to  the  window  again. 

Presently  that  pretty,  startling  voice  said, — 

"  Luncheon  is  served,  sir." 

"  Thank  you,"  said  he,  thinking  she  would  go. 

Slie  remained,  however,  standing  behind  the  empty 
chair.     He  went  and  took  his  seat. 


SHANDOjy  BELLS.  269 

"I  beg  your  pardon,  sir,"  she  said,  "but  will  you  have 
cbampagne  or  claret?  I  have  not  opened  the  bottle  yet. 
Mr.  Frank  had  sometimes  the  one  and  sometimes  the 
other." 

At  this  Fitzgerald  flushed  like  a  schoolboy.  How 
could  he  explain  to  her  that  he  was  not  Mr.  Frank ;  that  he 
was  mucli  more  of  a  fellow-servant  with  herself  ?  It  was 
clear  that  these  instructions  from  Mrs.  Chetwynd  and 
from  Mr.  McGee  were  putting  him  into  an  altogether  false 
position. 

"But  I  am  not  at  all  used  to  such  luxury,  Mrs.  Dunne," 
said  he,  good-naturedly.     *'  Is  there  any  beer  in  the  house  ?  " 

"  Oh,  yes,  sir ;  I  will  fetch  some.  Audi  tliey  call  rae 
Kate,  sir." 

When  she  returned  with  the  ale,  and  put  it  on  the  table, 
he  said  (  without  looking  up  ), 

"  Thank  you,  Mrs. — Mrs.  Dunne  ;  that  is,  if  you  don't 
mind — if  it  is  the  same  to  you — to  have  that  name,  from 
a  stranger,  you  know.  And  1  would  not  trouble  you  to 
wait.  I  am  sure  there  is  everything  here.  If  I  want  any- 
thing, I  will  ring." 

"  Thank  you,  sir,"  said  she,  with  the  same  pretty  polite- 
ness, and  then  she  stirred  the  fire,  and  left  the  room. 

As  he  sat,  moodily  and  dreamily,  at  this  far  too  copious 
banquet,  it  seemed  to  him — or  perhaps  it  was  only  a  bit  of 
sarcastic  phantasy  that  he  played  with — that  women  were 
by  nature  really  kind  and  thouglitful  and  considerate  so 
long  as  you  liad  nothing  to  do  with  their  affections,  when 
tliey  were  as  the  tigers  that  slay.  Think  of  Mrs.  Chetwynd's 
solicitude  about  his  welfare,  her  repeated  injunctions,  the 
j>roof8  being  visible  on  the  table  here  at  this  ordinary  mid- 
day meal.  He,  as  well  as  any,  and  better  than  most,  knew 
with  what  trouble  and  even  difficulty  many  of  these  things 
must  have  been  procured  at  a  remote  country  house  in  the 
south  of  Ireland.  Think  of  the  anxious  kindness  of  this 
])Oor  creature,  who  would  have  him  consider  himself  quite  as 
much  at  home  as  Mr.  Frank.  Kitty,  even  when  her  heart 
had  gone  away  from  him,  when  her  eyes  were  smiling  only 
*o  deceive  him  and  get  rid  of  him,  she  must  needs  rob  her- 
^slf  of  half  her  night's  rest  for  the  purposes  of  cooking,  and 
"ome  rushing  and  panting  to  the  station  with  the  salad  that 
ner  own  hands  had  dressed.  That  was  the  misssion  of 
women,  then?  There  they  found  themselves  at  home, were 
Qatural  a/id  trustworthy  ?     There  they  were  truest  to  them- 


270  SHANDON  BELLS. 

selves?  It  was  an  odd  theory  ;  but  lie  left  the  food  before 
him  almost  untouched,  and  went  to  the  easy-chair  and  lit 
a  pipe,  but  soon  dropped  that  on  the  floor  and  went  fast 
asleep,  for  he  had  not  closed  his  eyes  the  whole  of  the  pre- 
vious night. 

He  was  awakened  by  Kitty's  voice  (  as  he  thought  in 
his  dream  ),  and  he  sprang  to  his  feet,  with  his  face  white. 

"  Oh,  I  beg  your  pardon,  sir,"  said  the  English  maid- 
servant, about  to  withdraw. 

"  No,  no ;  what  is  it,  Mrs.  Dunne  ?  Do  you  want  to 
take  away  the  things  ?  " 

"  It  is  only  Micky,  the  keeper,  sir,  who  would  like  to 
see  you,  sir.     But  any  time  will  be  convenient •*' 

*»  Where  is  he?" 

"  In  the  kitchen,  sir." 

"  Tell  him  to  come  along  now,  and  we  will  go  and  have 
a  look  at  the  kennel.'' 

"Very  well,  sir." 

Micky,  or  Mick,  as  he  was  generally  called,  proved  to 
be  a  smart-looking,  clean-built  young  fellow  of  about  two 
and-twenty,  with  i-eddish-yellow  hair,  ruddy  brown  eyes, 
and  a  face  that  could  express  more  than  his  tongue.  For 
be  had  come  from  one  of  the  westernmost  distincts  in  Kerry, 
and  his  English  was  somewhat  scant.  Fitzgei*ald,  on  the 
other  hand,  had  almost  forgotten  what  little  Irish  he  ever 
knew ;  so  that  the  convereation  that  now  ensued  in  the  hall, 
about  cartridges,  and  the  cleaning  of  guns,  and  what  not, 
was  conducted  with  a  good  deal  of  guessing  on  both  sides. 
However,  Mick  showed  himself  shrewd  enough ;  he  quite 
understood  Fitzgerald's  monitions  about  the  importance  of 
keeping  on  good  terms  with  the  farmers  and  shepherds 
around ;  and  when,  in  the  little  gun-room,  they  turned  over 
the  various  drawers  and  cases  and  so  forth — sad  enougli 
relics  these  were  of  the  dead  man — ^it  was  very  clear  that 
he  had  done  his  best  to  master  his  trade.  The  guns  had 
been  beautifully  cleaned,  and  carefully  oiled  and  put  away. 
Such  cartridges  as  were  there  were  well  made.  Not  only 
that,  but  some  sea-birds  stuck  up  along  the  wall  were  of 
Mick's  own  stuffing ;  and  they  were  very  fairly  done,  con- 
sidering,the  difficulty  of  the  performance.  Master  Willie 
had  found  a  companion  jnst  to  his  mind. 

"The  loicense,  sir?"  said  Mick,  as  if  his  clear  brown 
eyes  conveyed  all  the  rest  of  the  question. 

"Yes,  what?" 


SHANDON  BELLS,  271 

"  *  Twas  Misther  McGee  was  axing  would  it  be  a  gun 
loicense  or  a  kaper's  loicense  he  was  to  be  getting  for  me." 

"  What  had  you  before?  " 

"  Sure  I  had  the  kaper's  loicense  ;  but  Misther  McGee 
was  saying  mebbe  you'd  be  shoottng  all  the  toime  yourself, 
sir,  and  what  would  I  be  after  wanting  the  game  loicense 
for?" 

"  What  did  you  use  it  for  before  ?  " 

But  this  took  Mick  some  time  to  explain  ;  the  fact  being 
that  "  his  honor,"  as  every  one  except  the  English  maid- 
servant called  young  Chetwynd,  had  been  away  frequently 
during  the  shooting  season,  and  on  that  account  the  keeper 
had  had  a  license  to  kill  game,  so  that  an  occasional  hamper 
could  be  sent  to  London.  Fitzgerald  said  he  would  have 
to  settle  that  matter  afterward  ;  and  together  they  set  out 
for  the  kennel  through  the  silent  thin  wet  that  seemed  to 
hang  in  the  atmosphere  like  a  vapor. 

He  spent  about  an  hour  in  the  kennel  and  stable,  and 
then  returned  to  the  solitary  room,  and  got  a  book,  and  sat 
down  to  read  in  the  melancholy  silence  of  the  rain.  But 
he  was  restless.  The  type  before  him  got  into  a  fashion  of 
fading  away,  and  pictures  formed  themselves  in  its  stead. 
This  would  not  do. 

He  threw  down  the  book,  and  went  out  and  put  on  his 
shooting-boots  and  leggings  and  waterproof.  Then  he  got 
out  the  fishing-rod  he  had  brought  with  him,  and  jointed  it 
together  on  the  lawn.  Then  he  got  his  fly-book,  and  chose 
indifferently  the  first  cast  that  came  to  hand,  which  he 
twisted  round  his  hat.  Thus  equipped,  he  set  forth  through 
the  shrubbery,  and  made  his  way  to  the  side  of  the  small 
but  rapid  stream  that  came  down  from  the  hills  through  the 
valley  to  the  salt-water  of  the  bay. 

He  had  not  stayed  to  ask  what  chances  of  sport  there 
were.  But  the  throwing  of  a  fly  would  be  sufiicient  occu- 
.pation,  he  thought  ;  one  could  not  stay  indoors  the  whole 
afternoon ;  besides,  there  would  be  practice — in  case  he 
might  happen  on  some  better  fishing  elsewhere. 

So  he  made  his  way  through  the  rank  tall  grass  and  her- 
bage (the  best  shooting-boots  in  the  world  could  not  keep 
out  the  wet)  until  he  reached  the  side  of  the  stream,  and 
there  he  put  on  the  cast,  and  with  a  short  line  threw  the 
flies  on  the  swirling  water.  It  very  soon  appeared  that  if 
he  only  wanted  to  exercise  his  skill  he  would  have  ample 
opportunities,  for  the  streamlet  was  narrow,  long  weedg 


272  SHANDON  BELLS. 

grew  down  to  the  very  edge,  the  water  was  rapid,  and  in 
the  first  three  casts  he  got  twice  caught  up.  But  when  he 
had  chosen  his  position  better,  and  was  a  little  more  care- 
ful, he  soon  found  himself  catching  fish  ;  that  is  to  say, 
small  brown  trout  of  about  four  to  tlie  pound.  It  amused 
him,  and  did  no  harm  to  them  ;  nay,  perhaps  it  was  a  bene- 
fit to  them,  for  when  they  were  flung  in  again  they  had 
learned  a  lesson  in  life,  and  would  be  more  cautious  in  the 
future.  And  to  him  there  was  a  certain  variety  in  the  oc- 
cupation besides  merely  trying  to  dodge  the  tall  weeds.  To 
get  at  some  of  the  pools  and  reaches  of  this  sharply  curv- 
ing river  he  had  to  cross  necks  of  land  that  were  obviously 
covered  at  very  high  tides  with  the  sea-water,  and  as  these 
contained  a  considerable  number  of  deep  peaty-looking 
holes  partially  concealed  by  the  long  grass,  there  was  a  pos- 
sibility of  his  finding  himself  any  moment  up  to  the  neck 
in  mud.  So  he  kept  on,  on  this  sad,  dull  day,  with  the  soft 
rain  continuously  falling,  discovering  new  pools,  hanging 
up  on  weeds,  landing  small  fish,  and  leisurely  throwing 
them  back  again,  until, — 

Yes,  until  there  was  a  sound  that  made  his  heart  jump 
— the  shrill  whir-r-r-r  of  the  reel !  Up  went  the  top  of  the 
rod,  out  went  the  butt,  in  a  moment.  Then  he  saw  his  op- 
portunity. He  floundered  down  through  the  bushes,  and 
got  into  one  of  the  ahallow  reaches  of  the  river,  where  the 
■w\iter  was  not  up  to  his  knees ;  here  he  could  deal  with  his 
enemy  face  to  face.  The  fisli  had  at  first  banged  away 
down  stream,  but  was  now  sulking  under  a  bank ;  so  he 
cautiously  waded  and  waded,  winding  in  his  line  the  while, 
and  keeping  as  heavy  a  strain  on  as  he  dared.  If  this  was 
a  grilse  or  sea-trout  making  its  first  experiment  into  fresh- 
water, he  knew  very  well  that  it  was  as  likely  as  not  to  re- 
sent tins  treatment,  and  make  a  bolt  back  for  the  sea.  And 
DOW  there  came  between  him  and  his  prey  a  bend  of  the 
i-iver  where  the  banks  came  close  together,  and  he  was 
afraid  it  was  too  deep  for  him  to  wade.  The  fearfi*l  un- 
certainty of  that  moment !  Look  at  the  danger  of  getting 
on  either  bank — scrambling  up  among  the  tall  weeds — if  the 
fish  should  just  choose  that  precious  point  of  time, — 

Suddenly  there  was  a  slackening  of  the  line,  and  for  a 
w^ild  second  he  saw  a  blue  and  white  thing  flashing  in  the 
air,  and  splashing  down  again  on  the  water.  He  dipped  his 
rod.  Quickly  and  sharply  raising  it,  he  felt  no  harm  had 
been  done.    But  now  the  line  was  appreciably  slackening 


SUA  A  DON  BELLS.  273 

again,  nnd  as  ho  rapidly  wound  it  in,  he  found  that  the  iisli 
\vas  heading  up  stream,  and  must  be  approaching  liiin.  Tins 
was  a  serious  situation.  At  hist  the  rod  was  nearly  verti- 
cal, though  he  was  winding  as  hard  as  he  could  to  get  the 
strain  on  again,  and  he  was  anxiously  looking  at  the  point. 
Just  at  the  instant  of  his  greatest  endeavor  he  joyfully  ielt 
the  strain  returning — nay,  he  had  to  release  his  grip  of  the 
liandle  of  the  reel  ;  he  merely  kept  his  forefinger  on  the 
line,  ready  for  any  emergency — and  then  with  another  great 
whir-r-r-r  away  went  the  fish  again,  round  a  turn  in  the 
bank ;  and  the  next  thing  he  knew  was  that  his  rod  was 
quite  limp  and  vertical  in  his  hand,  with  the  line,  minus  the 
cast,  flying  high  and  idly  in  the  air. 

So  far  from  disheartening  him,  however,  this  put  a  new 
aspect  on  affairs  altogether :  and  he  thought  that  the  best 
thing  he  could  do  before  risking  any  further  and  similar 
losses  was  to  go  straight  away  home,  and  sit  down,  and 
thoroughly  overhaul  his  fly-book,  and  see  that  his  casting 
lines  were  in  good  condition.  This,  when  he  had  changed 
liis  wet  clothes,  he  proceeded  to  do  ;  and  the  table  in  tlie 
dining-room  was  pretty  well  covered  with  fishing  material 
when  the  English  maid-servant  entered. 

"  What  would  you  like  to  have  for  dinner,  sir?  "  said 
the  young  woman, 

"  I  do  not  care.  It  appears  to  me  I  have  dined  already, 
Mrs.  Dunne." 

"  Mr.  Frank  used  to  dine  at  seven,  sir." 

"Very  well,  seven,  if  you  like.  But  please  don't  take 
so  much  trouble  as  about  luncheon :  I  am  used  to  very 
simple  fare." 

"  I  am  sorry  we  can't  get  any  game  at  this  time  of  the 
year,  sir." 

«  Well,  I  know  that." 

She  lingered  and  hesitated  for  a  second  or  two. 

"  I  wish,  sir — I  beg  your  pardon,  sir — but  would  you  be 
fio  kihd  as  to  speak  to  Micky  ?  " 

"  What  is  it  now  ? "  said  he,  looking  up  for  the  first 
time — for  he  had  been  busy  with  his  flies. 

"  The  Fenians,  sir.  Some  of  them  have  been  down  here, 
and  they  are  frightening  the  poor  boy.  He  does  not  want 
to  join  them  :  but  they  have  been  threatening  him — yes, 
and  threatening  the  house,  sir — if  he  does  not  join  them." 

"  Send  him  to  me,  Mrs.  Dunne,     I  know  the  fellows." 


274  SHANDON  BELLS. 

Presently  Micky  appeared  at  the  door  of  the  dining-room, 
anxious-eyed. 

'*  Are  there  any  Fenians  about  here,  Micky?  "  said  he, 
pulling  at  a  casting  line.  Kate  Dunne  was  listening  the 
while,  though  she  pretended  she  was  getting  out  the  dinner 
things  from  the  sideboard. 

"N— no,  sir." 

"I'm  glad  of  that,"  said  Fitzgerald.  "I  come  from  the 
Blackwater,  and  we  know  how  to  deal  with  them  there.  If 
any  of  the  idle  blackguards — I  say  if  any  of  the  idle  bligards," 
he  repeated,  looking  up,  and  speaking  with  more  signifi- 
cance, "  should  come  bothering  about  here,  and  trying  to 
get  decent  young  fellows  into  trouble — getting  them  to 
drink  whiskey,  and  march  about  at  night — you  come  and 
tell  me.  While  I  am  here  I  won't  have  any  strangers  come 
prowlinjy  about — do  you  understand,  Micky  ?  Wasn't  it 
you  made  up  the  No.  4  cartridges?" 

"  Sure  it  was,  your  honor." 

"  Well,  now,  its  one  or  two  of  the  No.  4  cartridges  that 
I  keep  in  my  pocket  at  this  time  of  the  year,  just  for  any- 
thing that  may  turn  up  ;  and  I  generally  have  a  gun  handy, 
especially  at  night.  Now,  d'ye  see  now,  if  I  catch  any  idle 
vagabond  interfering  about  the  place,  and  threatening  any- 
body, or  talking  about  his  marching  and  his  countermarching, 
I'm  not  going  to  wait  to  ask  him  his  business ;  it's  the 
Queen's  guinea  to  a  quid  o'  tobacco  he'll  get  a  charge  of 
No.  4  shot  catching  him  up  behind ;  and  ye  weighed  the 
shot  yoursilf,  Micky,  and  sure  ye  know  it  '11  make  the 
bligards  jump." 

Micky  went  away  deeply  impressed.  That  Irish  way  of 
talking  carried  conviction  with  it.  He  sought  out  his 
friend  Murtough,  the  coachman,  and  after  a  second  or  two 
of  thoughtful  silence,  he  said : — 

"  Sure  'tis  the  new  master  can  spake  his  moind.  Blood 
and  ounds ;  but  I  hope  there'll  be  no  murther  about  the 
house." 

In  the  evening  Fitzgerald  dined  in  solitary  state,  the 
pretty  house-maid,  very  quickly  perceiving  that  he  prefened 
to  be  alone,  leaving  things  about  handy,  so  that  he  could 
help  himself.  Thereafter  he  smoked  and  read.  Toward 
nine  or  so  she  again  appeared,  bringing  in  the  spirit  tray. 

"  Thank  you,"  said  he,  looking  up  in  a  bewildered  kind 
of  way  (for  he  had  been  vaguely  dreaming  as  well  as  read- 
ing), "  I  don't  want  anything  more." 


SHAN  DON  BELLS.  275 

"  If  you  would  rather  have  brandy,  sir,"  said  she,  "  I 
think  there  is  some." 

**  Thank  you,  but  I  never  take  spirits." 

"  Oil,  indeed,  sir.  I  hope  you  will  find  your  room  com- 
fortable, sir.     You  will  find  a  candle  on  the  hall  table." 

*^  Thank  you  very  much," 

"Good-night,  sir." 

"  Good-night  to  you." 

So  thus  had  passed  the  first  day  in  this  new  neighbor- 
hood, and  it  had  not  been  uninteresting.  He  was  not 
thinking  of  any  work  now ;  he  had  no  thought  of  turning 
these  fresh  experiences  into  literature.  Nor  had  he  any  re- 
(lection  that  this  place,  so  remote,  and  still,  and  silent,  and 
beautiful,  was  just  the  place  where  Nature,  if  she  were  com- 
muned with  in  her  mysterious  haunts,  might  reveal  her 
subtler  secrets  to  the  listening  and  sorrowing  soul.  No ;  he 
had  got  through  a  sort  of  day's  duty,  and  that  had  kept  liim 
from  thinking  much,  which  was  his  chief  good  at  present. 
He  was  glad  to  be  able  to  do  something  in  return  for  the 
Chetwynds'  kindness.  No  doubt  his  being  there  and  oc- 
cupying the  place  would  reconcile  the  old  lady  to  the  idea 
of  letting  it.  He  would  be  able,  he  hoped,  to  give  a  good 
report  of  both  house  and  shooting.  And  no  more  than  the 
man  in  the  moon,  it  may  be  added,  had  he  the  slightest  con- 
ception of  the  purpose  Mrs.  Chetwynd  had  in  view  in  beg- 
ging him  to  be  so  kind  as  to  pay  a  visit  of  inspection  to  Boat 
of  Garry. 


CHAPTER  XXV. 

GLIMMERINGS. 


He  was  soon  to  have  an  inkling  of  that,  however.  After 
having  been  some  little  time  in  this  still,  silent  and  beauti- 
ful place,  occupied  mostly  in  taking  long  and  solitary 
walks  by  sea  and  shore,  he  wrote  as  follows  to  Mary  Chet- 
wynd : — 

*'  Boat  of  Garry. 

"  Dear  Miss  Chetwynd, — In  the  last  letter  I  had  from 
Hyde  Park  Gardens  your  aunt  seemed  to  think  it  quite 
enough  if  I  remained  here  enjoying  myself  in  idleness ;  and 


276  SHAN  DON  BELLS 

the  temptation  to  do  tliat  is  sufficiently  strong ;  for  it  is  one. 
of  the  most  beautiful  neighborhoods  I  have  ever  seen,  and 
the  people  are  very  friendly.  I  think  I  ought  to  remind 
you,  however,  that  if  you  wish  to  let  the  house  and  shoot 
ing,  it  would  be  easier  to  do  that  now  than  later  on ;  and 
really  it  seems  a  pity  to  think  of  such  a  place  remaining 
vacant.  I  am  afraid  a  good  many  of  the  young  birds  were 
killed  by  the  heavy  rains  in  the  early  spring,  but  in  some 
cases  there  are  second  broods  in  the  nests ;  and  there  will 
be  plenty  of  hares.  Every  one  says  the  winter  shooting  is 
most  excellent,  though  Mr.  Chetwynd  does  not  appear  even 
to  have  spent  a  winter  here.  Everything  about  the  house, 
as  I  wrote  to  your  aunt,  seems  well  managed — the  horses  in 
excellent  condition  ;  the  dogs  not  so  good,  as  far  as  I  can 
judge  (the  tenant  should  bring  a  brace  of  Ihorouglily 
trained  setters  with  him) ;  and  the  new  boiler  will  be  in 
the  steam-yacht  next  week.  As  to  the  prettiness  of  the 
place,  of  course  you  know  about  that  as  well  as  I ;  but  if  1 
hear  of  any  photographer  coming  through  by  way  of  Glen- 
gariff  to  Killarney,  I  will  take  the  liberty  of  getting  him  to 
come  down  here  and  take  one  or  two  photographs. 
These  would  not  cost  much,  and  they  would  help  you  ir* 
letting  the  place. 

"Yours  faithfully, 

"  William  Fitzgerald." 
This  was  the  answer  : 

•'*  Hyde  Pap.k  Gardens,  Sunday  Evening, 
*'  Deak  Mr.  Fitzgerald, — 1  am  in  deep  disgrace.  Your 
letter  seemed  to  me  so  reasonable  that  I  thought  I  would 
venture,  in  the  most  roundabout  way,  to  make  the  sugges- 
tion. Well,  auntie,  as  you  know,  is  not  the  kind  of  person 
to  get  into  a  tempest  of  indignation ;  but  I  could  see  sho 
was  really  pained  at  the  notion  of  taking  money  for  poor 
Frank's  place,  and  that  she  regarded  me  as  a  most  unfeel- 
ing and  wicked  creature.  Of  course  I  did  not  press  the 
matter.  I  suppose  I  was  premature.  But  what  I  really  do 
believe  auntie  means  to  do  with  Boat  of  Garry  is  to  ask 
you  to  take  it — probably  with  the  name  of  Chetwynd  as 
well.  Perhaps  I  should  not  mention  this  project  to  you, 
for  I  have  no  authority  ;  but  auntie  has  been  talking  about 
it  to  Dr.  Bude  (w^ho  is  a  great  friend  of  yours,  by  the  way) ; 
and  if  he  advises  yes,  the  least  you  can  do  will  be  to  send 
him  some  game.     Auntie  appears  to  wish  that  in  the  mean- 


SHANDON  BELLS,  277 

limo  you  should  wait  over  for  the  shooting,  unless  you  find 
the  place  intolerably  dull ;  and  we  both  hope  you  find  the 
house  and  the  neighborhood  to  your  liking,  and  that  if  you 
are  writing  anymore  papers  like  the  'Woodland  Walk,' 
you  won't  forget  to  put  something  about  Boat  of  Garry  into 
them. 

*'  Yours  sincerely, 

"  Mary  Chetwynd." 

'*  P.S. — After  all,  on  reflection,  it  seems  to  me  that 
auntie  may  be  right.  I  am  afraid  I  should  not  like  to 
think  of  poor  Frank^s  place  going  away  into  the  hands  of 
perfect  strangers.  But  as  this  is  a  mere  piece  of  sentiment, 
I  am  not  going  to  interfere  in  any  way,  or  give  any  advice. 

"M.  C." 

When  he  read  this  letter  he  was  seated  on  a  rocky  knoll 
high  up  on  the  hillside,  whither  it  had  been  brought  him  by 
a  boy.  Far  below  he  could  see  the  small  house  ensconced 
among  the  abundant  foliage;  the  trim  lawn,  the  belt 
of  trees,  the  spacious  meadow  outside,  and  the  curved  arm 
of  the  sea — a  silver  white — that  swept  round  as  if  to  en- 
close the  whole.  Was  it  not  a  beautiful  picture,  then, 
under  these  skies  of  June — a  desirable  enough  possession  *i 
Here,  indeed,  was  a  vale  of  Avoca,  where  one  might  pass 
the  peaceful  years  away,  quietly  and  equally,  with  the 
friends  one  loved  best.  But  strangely  enough,  he  looked 
on  the  place  with  no  longing  eye.  He  did  not  crave  for  the 
shelter,  the  snugness,  the  indoor  affections,  of  a  house. 
Here,  alone  with  the  sad  hills,  and  the  clouds  floating  in 
from  the  Atlantic,  he  was  more  at  rest.  He  watched  the 
great  and  mysterious  shadows  moving  along,  and  those 
hills  growing  darker  and  grander,  or  disappearing  alto- 
gether behind  the  folds  of  vapor,  and  slowly  revealing 
themselves  again  in  altered  lines ;  and  iji  the  face  of  this 
mighty  phantasmagoria,  human  life,  with  all  its  fears  and 
ills,  seemed  a  petty  and  trivial  thing.  He  watched  the 
great  gray  sea  darkening  or  lightening  wit|h  the  lowering  or 
the  lifting  of  the  heavy  skies.  And  sometimes,  as  it  seemed 
to  him,  there  was  a  sudden  vision  overhead,  a  break  in  the 
pall  of  white,  and  a  glimpse  into  a  far  and  unknown  realm 
of  intensest  blue  ;  and  then  a  warmth  and  a  golden  glory 
spread  around  him  on  the  herbage  and  the  rocks ;  and  the 
clear  singing  of  a  lark  sprang  into  the  silence,  far  away 


278  SHANDON  BELLS. 

down  there  over  the  waterfall  and  the  glen  ;  and  the  sea 
air  coming  over  from  the  south  grew  so  balmy  and  soft 
that  it  was  delicious  to  breathe  :  one  turned  one's  throat  to 
it,  and  the  touch  of  it  on  the  cheek  was  like  the  touch  of  a 
velvet  glove. 

Look,  now,  at  this  new  companion  of  his.  In  the  per- 
feet  stillness  of  sea  and  sky  and  land,  and  while  his  eyes 
are  far  away,  some  quick  movement  near  at  hand  tells  him 
that  he  is  not  alone.  A  small  rabbit,  the  ^^r^  tiniest  of 
baby  rabbits,  a  ball  of  brown  fur,  has  come  quietly  along, 
all  unconscious  of  his  presence  until  it  is  within  three  yards 
of  him.  It  trots  here  and  there,  with  a  leisurely,  ungainly 
tripping,  nibbling  the  grass  now  and  again,  never  looking 
up.  And  then  suddenly  it  stands  still ;  and  the  fat  little 
ball  of  fur  has  great  staring  eyes — staring  with  observation, 
not  friglit,  for  very  likely  it  has  never  beheld  a  human 
being  before.  The  big,  flat,  gray  eyes  regard  him  un- 
winking ;  there  is  no  movement.  Then,  with  a  little  for- 
ward jerk  of  the  head,  up  go  the  long  ears  ;  and  again  the 
motionless  staring.  Then  up  goes  the  baby  rabbit  itself  on 
its  hind-legs,  the  fore-paws  comically  drooping ;  and  again 
the  steadfast  stare  at  this  immovable  strange  creature 
seated  on  the  rock.  Then  by  some  accident  he  inadver- 
tently stirs  a  hand  or  a  foot — the  eighth  of  an  inch  will  do 
it — and  at  the  very  same  instant  the  earth  is  left  empty  ; 
there  is  only  a  glimmer  of  white  disappearing  into  the 
brackens  a  dozen  yards  away. 

By  and  by  he  makes  out  another  living  object,  appar- 
ently not  much  bigger  than  the  baby  rabbit,  coming  up  the 
l»ill  by  the  side  of  the  narrow  glen,  and  as  he  makes  no 
doubt  that  this  is  the  same  boy  sent  up  with  another  mes- 
sage, he  rises,  puts  tlie  letter  in  his  pocket,  and  proceeds  to 
descend.  Sure  enough,  the  shock-headed  gossoon  has  a 
message  ;  there  is  a  gentleman  waiting  for  his  honor.  What 
gentleman  ?  He  does  not  know.  Did  he  come  in  a  dog-cart 
with  a  white  horse  ?  That  he  did.  And  then  Fitzgerald 
knows  that  Mr.  McGee,  the  Bantry  solicitor,  has  paid  him 
another  visit,  and  hastens  down  through  bracken  and  over 
stone  walls  until  he  reaches  the  road  sweeping  round  to 
the  house. 

This  Mr.  McGee  was  a  big,  burly,  good-natured  kind  ol 
man,  with  a  sort  of  sporting  air  about  him,  who  had  really 
gone  a  good  deal  out  of  his  way  to  make  Fitzgerald's 
sray  at  Boat  of  Garry  pleasant  for  liim.     And  his  present 


SHANDON  BELLS,  278 

mission  was  to  say  (with  profuse  apologies  for  delay)  that 
at  last  the  steam-yacht,  the  Black  Swan,  as  they  called  her^ 
had  got  her  new  boiler  in,  which  was  to  increase  her  speed 
by  two  miles  an  hour,  and  all  she  wanted  now  was  to  get 
in  a  few  tons  of  coal  and  a  store  of  oil ;  and  would  he,  that 
is,  Fitzgerald,  care  to  take  coach  and  rail  to  Cork,  and  make 
the  trip  in  her  from  Cork  Harbor  to  Bantry  Bay  ? 

"  Oh,  no  ;  no,  thank  you,"  said  Fitzgerald,  hastily. 

"  Sure  it  would  be  as  safe  as  sitting  in  chapel,"  said  Mr. 
McGee,  with  a  good-natured  laugh.  "  We'll  wait  for 
smooth  wather;  and  if  there's  too  heavy  a  swell  when  we 
come  to  Cape  Clear  or  the  Mizen  Head,  can't  we  run  back 
and  put  into  Glandore?" 

*'  It  isn't  that,"  said  Fitzgerald.  "  I  don't  feel  inclined 
to  go  to  Cork  just  at  present." 

"  I  was  thinking  'twould  be  a  bit  of  variety  for  ye ;  for 
divil  the  much  there  is  to  do  about  here  at  this  time  of  the 
year." 

"  The  fishing  is  capital." 

*'  The  fishing ! — the  fishing,  did  ye  say  ?  " 

"  If  you  like  to  wait  for  lunch,  you'll  have  a  bit  oi  a 
three-pound  sea-trout  I  caught  in  the  stream  there  only  yes- 
terday afternoon." 

"D'ye  say  that  now?  It's  myself  has  tried  it  half  a 
dozen  times,  and  I  might  as  well  have  been  throwing  a  fly 
into  my  grandmother's  taypot.  But  faith  I'll  stay  to  lunch 
tvid  ye,  and  give  the  ould  mare  a  bit  of  a  rest." 

Master  Willie  did  not  say  anything  about  the  number  of 
trout  to  be  found  in  the  adjacent  stream  ;  but,  at  all  events 
this  particular  one  proved  to  be  most  excellent,  and  Mr. 
McGee  proceeded  to  make  himself  very  much  at  home. 

"  Katie,  darling,"  said  he  to  Mrs.  Dunne  when  she 
brought  in  the  beer,  ^'  isn't  there  a  glass  of  whiskey  about 
the  house  now?  " 

*''  I  beg  your  pardon  for  forgetting,"  said  Fitzgerald ; 
»*  but  really  I  am  not  sure  who  ought  to  jjlay  the  part  of 
host." 

'.'  Well,  many 'a  the  evening  I've  spent  in  this  very  room 
with  the  poor  boy  that's  gone  ;  and  a  pleasanter  companion 
or  a  finer  gintleman  there  was  not  in  the  country,"  said  he. 
"  Thank  ye,  my  good  gyurl ;  and  isn't  there  a  drop  o'  hot 
wather  about  now?  Well,  sir,  ye've  a  good  ould  Irish 
name,  and  I  hope  ye'll  have  a  happy  stay  among  us ;  an' 
niver  fear,  ye'll  be  mighty  plazed  with  the  Black  Sioan 


280  SHANDON  BELLS, 

when  we  get  her  round,  and  sure  ye'll  be  able  to  run  up  to 
Glengariff  whenever  ye  want,  and  the  divil  sweep  her  if  she 
doesn't  do  her  ten  moils  an  hour." 

The  quite  novel  excitement  of  meeting  a  stranger  had 
almost  driven  the  contents  of  Miss  Chetwynd's  letier  out  of 
Fitzgerald's  head  ;  but  when,  after  luncheon,  they  went  out 
to  the  seat  fronting  the  lawn,  and  had  coffee  there  on  the 
little  marble-topped  table,  and  lit  their  pipes,  the  quiet 
charm  of  the  place  again  stole  over  him,  and  he  could  not 
help  for  a  moment  wondering  what  his  sensations  would  be 
if  he  were  really  the  owner  of  such  a  delightful  spot.  Of 
course  it  was  out  of  the  question.  A  more  preposterous 
white  elephant  could  not  be  imagined.  Where  could  he 
find  money  to  keep  up  such  a  house — to  pay  wages  and  find 
provender  for  the  horses'?  It  was  like  offering  a  crossing- 
sweeper  the  use  for  the  season  of  a  three  hundred  ton  yacht* 
Indeed,  he  so  clearly  saw  that  this  could  only  be  regarded 
as  a  sort  of  pretty  sentimental  fancy  on  the  part  of  Mrs. 
Chetwynd — as  something  so  obviously  outside  the  limits  of 
practical  possibilities — that  he  was  very  niearly  mentioning 
it  to  this  good-natured  lawyer  ;  but  as  Mr.  McGee  had  for 
the  moment  dropped  into  a  snooze,  he  forbore,  and  finally 
concluded  he  would  say  nothing  about  the  matter. 

The  quiet  was  enough  to  send  any  man  to  sleep.  The 
day  had  brightened  up  ;  there  were  wider  deeps  of  blue  be- 
tween the  ribbed  white  clouds,  and  the  mellow  sunlight  fell 
warm  on  the  meadows  and  on  the  lawn,  on  the  glancing, 
trembling  green  of  the  broad-leaved  limes,  and  on  the  still 
yellower  green  of  the  drooping  foliage  of  a  swaying  acacia. 
The  air  was  soft  and  warm,  and  yet  moist,  and  it  was  per- 
vaded by  a  scent  of  all  growing  things — a  general,  vague, 
delicious  perfume  that  perhaps  came  chiefly  from  the  lush 
grass  there  not  yet  cut  for  hay.  A  curlew  or  two  were  stalk- 
ing along  the  shore,  where  the  bold  white  cimeter  of  the  sea 
came  in  between  the  meadows.  A  blackbird  shot  through 
the  rhododendrons,  and  the  silence  seemed  to  miss  its  sud- 
denly closed  song.  But  there  was  always  the  plash  and 
gurgle  of  the  stream  at  the  foot  of  the  lawn,  and  sometimes 
the  distant  bark  of  a  dog  or  the  rumbling  of  a  cart  spoke  of 
a  life  far  remote  from  this  enchanted  enclosure  that  seemed 
to  be  given  over  to  sunlight  and  peace  and  the  growing  of 
green  leaves. 

The  lawyer  awoke  with  a  start. 

"  Begorra  !"  said  he. 


SHANDON  BELLS.  281 

"  You  were  saying,"  observed  Fitzgerald,  just  as  if  he 
had  not  been  asleep  at  all,  "  that  she  was  registered  up  to 
eighty  pounds  on  the  square  inch;  but  of  course  the  boiler 
has  been  tested  beyond  that " 

"  Faix,  I  believe  I've  been  asleep,"  said  Mr.  McGee,  rub- 
bing his  eyes.  "  'Tis  no  wonder,  when  ye  get  out  of  the 
worrld.  What  will  ye  be  afther  doing  now  all  the  after- 
noon?" 

"I?  I  am  going  down  to  the  stream  to  see  if  I  can't 
catch  another  sea-trout  for  my  dinner." 

•"  Good  luck  to  ye,  thin  ;  and  I'll  go  and  get  the  mare 
out,  for  'tis  a  mighty  long  drive  to  Bantry  ?  " 

So  that  unusual  feature  of  fffe  at  Boat  of  Garry,  a  visitor, 
disappeared,  and  Fitzgerald  was  left  to  the  solitude  and 
silence  and  dreamy  loveliness  of  the  place.  In  the  after- 
noon, however,  he  caught  a  good  sea-trout,  and  also  a  brown 
one  of  about  three-quarters  of  a  pound — a  fair  size  for  this 
small  stream.  And  again  he  had  dinner  by  himself ;  and 
thereafter  he  smoked  and  read  as  usual.  By  and  by,  when 
the  moon  was  clear  on  the  gravel-walk,  he  stole  outside ;  he 
had  got  into  a  way  of  doing  that.  The  servants  thought 
the  new  master  merely  wished  to  have  a  breath  of  fresh  air, 
after  the  smoke  of  the  dining-room,  before  going  to  bed. 

And  perhaps  it  was  only  that.  He  walked  along  the 
gravel  in  the  clear  light  (though  the  moon  was  now  waning), 
and  lie  listened  to  the  croak  of  the  heron  and  the  cry  of  the 
curlew  down  by  the  sea.  He  went  along  to  the  road, 
climbed  over  a  wire  fence,  and  made  his  way  up  a  steep 
bank  where  there  was  a  clearance  among  the  trees.  When 
he  got  to  the  tap,  he  was  on  the  side  of  a  deep  and  almost 
black  chasm — the  wooded  glen  through  svhich  came  down 
the  little  brooklet  that  passed  by  the  end  of  the  lawn.  And 
there  he  sat  down  on  the  stump  of  a  felled  tree,  and  looked 
around,  and  was  alone  with  the  night  and  the  stars,  and  the 
moonlit  world. 

This  glen  was  smaller  and  narrower  than  the  one  near 
Inisheen,  but  it  was  a  far  more  lovely  place  ;  for  above  and 
beyond  it  towered  dark  hills,  rising  far  and  solemnly  into 
the  clear  night  sky.  There  was  a  more  spacious  view,  also, 
of  this  broad  silver  creek  running  out  to  meet  the  wide 
waters  of  Bantry  Bay,  and  of  wooded  islands  and  long 
promontories,  and  of  the  dusky  shore  beyond,  that  seemed 
to  lie  behind  the  moonlight,  and  was  half  lost  in  shadow. 
Night  after  night  he  climbed  up  to  this  spot ;  and  of  course 


282  SHANDON  BELLS, 

it  was  merely  to  look  at  the  beautiful  picture,  and  to  listen 
to  the  strange,  sad,  distant  sounds  in  the  stillness.  Some- 
times a  faint  perfume  of  the  sea  came,  borne  along  by  the 
slight  stirring  of  a  breeze  ;  sometimes,  in  a  dead  calm,  be- 
fore any  wind  was  moving,  he  thought  he  could  hear  a 
trembling  of  the  great  deep  in  the  darkness,  and  a  whisper 
along  the  shore.  Sometimes,  moreover,  as  he  sat  there, 
Avith  the  silent  hills  above,  and  the  great  sea  beyond,  a  wild 
fancy  got  into  his  brain  that  he  could  hear  a  voice  in  the 
sound  of  the  stream  below — the  stream  down  there  in  the 
dark  ;  it  became  quite  plain  :  a  human  voice — so  strange,  so 
strange  and  clear  :  O'oer  running  water  :  my  life  1  give  to 
you.  The  voice  sounded  <Juite  close.  All  trembling,  he 
would  bend  his  head  forward :  might  there  not  be  two 
people  there?  or  only  one  voice? — the  voice  of  a  girl  who 
was  dead,  and  gone  away  from  the  world — a  young  girl  who 
used  to  be  associated  with  all  young  and  beautiful  things, 
like  hawthorn  and  blue  speedwells  and  sunlit  mornings, 
when  there  was  a  freshness  in  the  air  ?  And  then  again 
there  would  be  nothing  but  the  aimless  and  meaningless 
murmur  of  the  stream  down  there  in  the  ravine ;  and  the 
awful  hills  and  the  sombre  sea  would  have  no  speech  or 
message  for  him;  and  what  was  the  use  or  value  of  this 
throbbing,  fretting,  tortured  insect  life  between  the  dark 
dead  world  and  the  cold  and  distant  and  pitiless  skies? 


CHAPTER  XXVI. 

TO   THB   EESCUE. 


About  this  time  there  began  to  appear  in  the  columns 
of  a  London  daily  newspaper  a  series  of  articles  which  very 
soon  attracted  the  attention  and  curiosity  of  the  public. 
They  were  a  new  feature  in  journalism ;  some  went  the 
length  of  saying  that  they  were  ^a  new  feature  in  English 
literature.  They  were  called  "  The  Occupations  of  a  Re- 
cluse," and  professed  to  give  some  account  of  the  various 
pursuits  incidental  to  a  quiet  country  life  ;  but  they  were 
in  reality  a  description  of  solitary  rambles  by  roadside  and 
sea-shore  and  stream — a  succession  of  carefully  studied  out 
of  door  scenes  that  had  a  quite  unaccountable  charm  about 
them..    For  this  way  of  describing  nature  was  not  the  poet- 


SHANDON  BELLS.  1><S;J 

ical  way  of  bringing  together  similitii<5:es,  saying  that  one 
thing  is  like  another  thing,  and  inviting  tjie  iiongination  to 
hop  tlie  little  differences.  Nor  was  it  the  otiter  way  of  giv- 
ing an  honest  and  trustworthy  catalogue — a  gamekeeper 
sort  of  catalogue — of  the  phenomena  of  the  hedge  row  or 
the  wood,  leaving  the  reader  who  has  sufficient  time,  train- 
ing, and  patience  to  fill  in  the  light  and  color  and  back- 
ground of  the  picture  for  himself.  No ;  there  was  some- 
thing strange  in  this  way  of  looking  at  things.  There  was 
a  minute  observation,  it  is  true,  put  down  in  the  simplest 
of  terms ;  and  there  was  a  certain  atmospheric  quality  that 
made  the  picture  clear  and  vivid.  But  there  was  more 
than  that :  there  was  a  kind  of  sensitive,  pathetic  thrill  in 
the  writing:  these  sights  and  sounds  that  were  so 
quietly  and  unobtrusively  chronicled  seemed  interpenetrated 
by  a  subtle  human  sympathy — rather  sad,  perhaps,  in  cer- 
tain of  its  under-tones.  Indeed,  to  some  it  seemed  that 
this  writer  had  got  behind  the  veil ;  that  even  the  sticks 
and  stones  and  flowers  had  whispered  to  him  in  his  soli- 
tude ;  that  the  silence  of  the  hills  had  reached  to  his  heart. 
And  very  soon — as  we  shall  see  presently — he  began  to 
abandon  even  the  pretence  of  writing  about  definite  pur 
suits.  The  further  he  was  allowed  to  drift,  the  further  ha 
drifted,  until  the  papers  grew  to  be  mainly  the  reflections 
of  a  man  who,  whether  it  was  a  gun  he  held  in  his  hand, 
or  whether  it  was  a  fishing-rod,  or  whether  he  was  merely 
looking  abroad  at  mountain  and  shore  and  sea,  continually 
found  himself  face  to  fa6e  with  the  mysteries  of  the  world, 
and  with  the  old  and  sad  and  insoluble  problems  of  human 
existence. 

Of  course  such  a  series  of  papers  looked  odd — at  the 
outset,  at  least — in  the  columns  of  a  London  daily  news- 
paper. The  editor  of  that  journal  was  himself  at  first  very 
doubtful;  but  something  in  the  writing  struck  him,  and  as 
his  time  and  attention  were  then  wholly  engrossed  by  a 
cabinet  crisis,  he  shoved  the  manuscript  into  his  pocket  and 
took  it  home,  and  showed  it  to  his  wife,  who,  when  all  his 
anxieties  and  interests  were  confined  within  the  sphere  of 
politics,  acted  for  him  as  the  mouthpiece  of  the  vain  clamor 
of  the  other  and  outer  world.  Now  this  lady  happened  to 
be  a  person  of  a  very  keen  discrimination  in  literary  mat 
ters,  and  when  she  had  read  the  first  two  of  these  papers 
her  judgment  was  prompt  and  decisive. 

"  This  writing  is  quite  extraordinary,"  said  she.    "  There 


284  SHANDON  BELLS. 

is  a  description  of  a  frosty  night  settling  down  over  n 
stretch  of  bog-land  that  made  me  shiver  to  my  fingertips." 

"  It  is  not  news,  and  it  is  a  newspaper  we  publisli,"  said 
her  husband,  doubtfully. 

"  I  should  not  care  whether  it  was  news  or  not,"  said 
she,  "  so  long  as  people  are  interested." 

"  It  is  very  magazinish,"  he  said. 

"  Why  should  the  magazines  monojiolize  literature  ?  " 
fihe  answered. 

Well,  the  experiment  was  made,  and  the  public,  who 
don't  care  a  pin's  point  about  the  traditions  of  new^spaper 
offices,  seemed  to  like  these  quiet  and  clear  pictures  of  coun- 
try life,  and  began  to  talk  about  them  even  amid  the  throes 
of  a  cabinet  crisis.  At  first,  it  is  true,  they  were  more  ob- 
viously practical.  There  was  a  good  deal  of  information 
about  dogs  and  guns,  about  rabbit-snaring  and  deep-sea 
fishing.  Even  the  good  Scoball  was  driven  to  send  for  a 
file  of  this  journal  (which  he  did  not  regularly  see,  as  it  did 
not  express  his  political  views)  as  he  took  his  seat  in  the 
library  of  his  club  one  evening  after  dinner  ;  and  so  charmed 
was  his  imagination  Avith  some  of  these  sketches  that  he  sud- 
denly exclaimed,  "Damme  if  I  don't  take  a  shooting  in 
Ireland  this  year  !  "  at  the  same  time  bringing  down  his  fist 
on  the  table,  to  the  excessive  alarm  of  three  old  gentlemen, 
who  had  each  been  fast  asleep  in  his  favorite  arm-chair,  and 
who  started  up  to  see  if  the  world  had  come  to  an  end. 

But  as  has  already  been  hinted,  this  new  writer  by  slow 
degrees  seemed  to  feel  that  he  was  being  allowed  a  good 
deal  of  latitude  ;  and  he  took  advantage  of  it  to  frequently 
wander  away  from  the  ostensible  purpose  of  these  articles, 
and  to  insinuate,  rather  than  to  state,  a  sort  of  philosophy 
of  human  life  which  had  some  odd  points  about  it.  He 
seemed  to  say  :  "  In  this  strange  transit  through  the  world, 
from  the  unknown  to  the  unknown,  where  should  one  most 
naturally  look  for  safe  and  close  companions  whose  inti- 
macy could  not  be  filched  away  from  us  or  altered  by  th(3 
fluctuating  circumstances  of  life  ?  Surely  in  the  grand  and 
beautiful  things  around  us  which  we  know  to  be  permanent. 
The  time  is  so  short,  wdiy  seek  to  probe  the  unsearchable 
mysteries  of  the  human  heart;  to  secure  and  imprison  the 
elusive;  to  stake  one's  happiness  on  so  unstable  a  founda- 
tion as  human  affection  ?  Is  there  anything  so  variable,  so 
liable  to  change — nay,  to  cease?  But  if  the  beautiful 
things  of  nature  were  to  become  our  friends  and  loved 


SHANDON  BELLS.  .  285 

ones,  then  securely  year  after  year  could  we  greet  the  re- 
appearance of  the  liowei-s ;  and  securely  day  after  day 
could  we  welcome  the  wonder  of  the  dawn,  and  listen  to 
the  murmuring  and  soothing  voice  of  the  sea.  The  friend 
whom  we  had  trusted  might  disappoint  and  betray  us;  lov- 
ing eyes  might  grow  cold,  and  take  away  their  love-secrets 
elsewhere ;  but  he  who  had  chosen  the  winds  and  the  seas 
and  the  colors  of  the  hills  for  playmates  and  constant  com- 
panions need  fear  no  change.  The  beautiful  human  face 
would  fade — nay,  death  might  step  in  and  rob  us  of  our 
treasure;  but  the  tender  loveliness  of  the  sunrise  remained, 
and  the  scent  of  summer  woods,  and  the  ripple  of  the  rivulet 
down  through  the  spacious  meadows.  But  then  this  compan- 
ion had  to  be  wooed  before  it  was  won  ;  tlnj  secret  voice  had 
to  be  listened  for ;  the  eye  trained  to  know  this  wonderful 
and  not  evanescent  beauty.  To  such  a  lover,  secure  in  his 
possession,  what  evil  could  fortune  bring?  Friend  and 
sweetheart  might  prove  false,  but  there  was  no  discordant 
note  in  the  music  of  the  lark ;  the  suspicions  and  envies 
and  enmities  of  mankind  might  appall,  but  there  could  be 
nothing  to  doubt  in  the  clear,  beautiful  blue  eye  of  the 
speedwell;  and  even  those  who  had  lingered  in  the  fight 
until  sorely  stricken  there  might  find  solace  in  retiring  to 
these  solitudes,  and  seeking  out  these  secret  comijanions, 
letting  the  seasons  go  by  peacefully  to  the  appointed  end.. 
*  Then  are  titey  glad  because  they  he  quiet  y  so  He  hringeth 
them  unto  their  desired  haven,''  " 

All  this  was  insinuated  rather  than  preached ;  and  it 
was  only  here  and  there  that  some  finely  attuned  ear 
caught  the  under-note  of  sadness,  and  perhaps  guessed  at 
its  cause.  Of  course  the  bruit  of  these  articles  reached  the 
house  in  Hyde  Park  Gardens,  and  Miss  Chetwynd,  who  was 
not  a  diligent  student  of  newspapers,  and  had,  in  fact, 
missed  them,  had  to  hunt  them  all  out  one  afternoon  and 
read  them  over  to  her  aunt.  What  surprised  her  was  that 
mere  sketches  of  sport,  as  they  seemed,  had  the  effect  more 
than  once  of  giving  her  a  choking  at  the  throat ;  but 
nothing  was  said  by  way  of  criticism  either  by  aunt  or 
niece,  for  the  reading  was  just  finished  by  dinner-time. 

At  dinner  Miss  Chetw^'nd  herself  introduced  the  sub- 
ject, and  asked  if  any  one  knew  who  had  written  theso 
papers. 

"I  don't,"  said  Dr.  Bude ;  "but  what  I  do  know  is 
that  it  is  a  thousand  pities  that  fellow  is  thrown  away  on 
literature.     Literature  does  not  want  him.      Science  does 


286  SHANDON  BELLS. 

I  can  assure  you,  my  dear  Mrs.  Chetwynd,  that  an  accurate 
observer  is  a  very  rare  bird  indeed — far  more  rare  among 
men  of  science  than  is  supposed.  There  are  so  few  who 
will  take  the  trouble  to  look  patiently ;  they  must  jump  to 
their  theory  at  once^  What  does  literature  want  with  that 
kind  of  observation  ?  Literature  should  deal  with  the 
mind — with  emotions.  That  fellow,  now,  should  be  set  to 
work  to  observe  the  habits  of  beetles  or  birds,  or  the  action 
of  the  tides,  or  some  useful  thing  like  that." 

"I  confess  I  was  disappointed,  after  all  the  talk,"  said 
Professor  Sims,  looking  over  his  gold  spectacles.  "  I 
glanced  at  one  or  two  of  the  papers,  and  found  them  incon- 
sequential. You  began  with  wild  fowl  shooting,  but  got  on 
to  Shakespeare  and  all  kinds  of  things.  Then  he  seemed 
to  me  to  be  interfering  with  the  proper  business  of  the 
artist — describing  what  ought  to  ))e  painted.  What  is  the 
use  of  describing  the  silvery  waves  that  wind  makes  on  a 
field  of  long  grass.     Every  one  can  see  that  for  himself." 

"Every  one  may  not  be  in  a  position  to  see  it,"  said 
Miss  Chetwynd,  in  her  gentle  and  yet  pointed  way.  "  Tliis 
is  bringing  the  picture  in-doors  for  you." 

"  That  is  not  to  be  described  in  words ;  that  is  for  an 
artist  to  paint,"  continued  the  professor. 

"  Could  he  ?  "  she  said,  quietly. 

"  But  there  is  something  to  be  said,"  Dr.  Bude  interposed 
again,  "  for  his  theory  that  the  eye  should  be  trained  to 
observe  the  beauty  of  all  manner  of  simple  things,  so  that 
you  may  increase  the  value  of  life.  That  is  practical  and 
sensible,  it  seems  to  me.  Even  if  you  don't  give  science  a 
lift,  you  can  make  a  country  walk  more  interesting.  He 
seems  to  have  picked  up  some  curious  illustrations  of  the 
morphology  of  plants.  And  I  had  forgotten,  I  confess, 
about  the  abortive  stamens  of  the  primrose.  You  have 
read  these  papers,  Mrs.  Chetwynd  ?  "  added  the  tall,  lank, 
dark  man. 

"  Mary  has  just  finished  reading  them  to  me." 

"  What  is  your  opinion,  then  ?  What  is  the  writer  ? 
A  man  of  science  excusing  lumself  for  idleness?  a  philoso- 
pher taken  to  shoothig  snipe  ?  or  an  artist  taken  to  literature 
because  his  pictures  won't  sell." 

"  I  am  sure  I  don't  know,"  said  the  old  lady,  rather 
hesitatingly,  and  with  none  of  her  usual  sprightliness.  "  I 
was  thinking  when  Mary  was  reading  them  that — that  if 
my  poor  boy  had  taken  to  writing,  most  likely  that  was 
the  kind  of  subject  he  would  have  chosen  to  writ«  about. 


SHANDON  BELLS.  287 

I  liked  the  papers.  They  seemed  a  little  sad  sometimes — 
at  least  wistful  and  strange.  There  is  a  kind  of  remoteness 
about  them." 

"  What  is  your  opinion,  then,  Miss  Mary  ?  "  he  asked. 

Mary  Chetwynd  started  slightly  ;  she  had  been  listening 
with  downcast  eyes. 

"I?"  said  she,  somewhat  slowly.  "What  I  think  ia 
that  they  are  written  by  a  man  whose  heart  is  broken." 

Indeed,  she  seemed  preoccupied  during  dinner ;  and 
when  the  people  had  gone  she  went  quickly  back  to  the 
dravvina^-room,  where  she  had  left  the  cuttings  from  the 
newspapers,  and  set  to  work  to  read  them  carefully  over 
again.  Her  aunt  followed  her  in  a  short  time,  and  found 
her  deeply  engaged. 

"You  have  no  more  of  the  newspaper  articles  to  read, 
have  you,  Mary  ?  " 

"  No ;  I  was  only  looking  over  them  again." 

By  and  by  she  looked  up  ;  but  the  old  lady  could  not 
see  that  her  niece  seemed  a  little  agitated. 

"  Auntie,  surely  you  must  know  who  has  written  these 
papers  ?  " 

''I,  child  ?"  said  Mrs.  Chetwynd,  absently.  "  Well,  I 
was  dreaming  about  them.  I  think  he  might  have  written 
them." 

"  But,  auntie,  don't  you  recognize  the  place  ?  It  is  Boat 
of  Garry." 

The  old  lady  sighed. 

"  Yes,  that  'is  what  he  would  have  written  about,  no 
doubt — the  place  he  was  so  fond  of." 

"  But,  auntie,  these  articles  are  written  about  Boat  of 
Garry.  Don't  you  recognize  it  all — the  creek,  and  the 
glen,  and  the  islands,  and  the  sea?  Why,  the  acacia  on 
the  lawn  is  there  ;  and  the  little  marble-topped  table  :  it  is 
like  a  photograph.  Mr.  Fitzgerald  has  written  these 
articles." 

"  Mr.  Fitzgerald  ?  Yes,  I  should  not  wonder,"  said  the 
aunt,  though  she  was  obviously  still  thinking  of  the  nephew 
whom  she  had  lost.  "  He  is  very  clever.  I  suppose  he 
began  to  write  early.  I  suppose  it  wants  training.  But  I 
think — Frank — could  have  written  them." 

"  What  I  am  thinking  of  is  this,  auntie,"  said  her  niece, 
with  some  touch  of  feeling  in  her  voice, "  that  if  these  articles 
are  written  by  Mr.  Fitzgerald,  we  have  no  right  to  ask  him 
to  remain  in  that  loneliness.  I — I  suppose  he  must  have 
met  with  some  sorrow ;  there  it  is  in  every  line.    I  say  we 


288  SHANDON  BELLS, 

liave  no  riglit  to  ask  him  to  remain  there.  I  am  certain  he 
wrote  these  papers.  Didn't  you  see  the  reference  to  the 
heronry  at  Glengariff?  and  he  has  put  in  Berehaven  as 
clear  as  can  be.  And  if — if  he  is  in  trouble,  no  matter 
what  it  is,  it  is  not  for  women  to  let  him  be  there  all  by 
himself,  eating  his  heart  out  in  solitude.  It  isn't  human. 
I'm  sure  I  never  thought  how  solitary  the  place  would  be 
if  one  were  there  alone  until  I  read  those  articles — we 
always  had  plenty  of  society.  It  must  be  dreadful :  doesn't 
it  sound  dreadful,  auntie." 

**  Oh  no,  Mary  ;  he  seems  so  pleased  with  the  birds  and 
the  different  things  around  him —  So  you  think  that  is 
Mr.  Fitzgerald  ?  Dear  me !  he  has  become  quite  famous, 
though  no  one  knows  his  name." 

"  They'll  know  it  soon  enough." 

"  And  that  is  his  life  at  Boat  of  Garry  that  you  have 
been  reading  to  me  ?  Yes,  it  is  like  the  place,  too — the 
gun-room  even,  and  the  stuffed  birds.  You  must  read 
them  all  over  again,  Mary.  Then  it  was  ht?  who  saw  the 
young  rabbit  trot  along  and  tell  its  father  and  mother? 
That  was  very  prettily  written  ;  now  that  I  think  of  it,  it 
must  have  been  in  the  wood  beside  the  jjl^'",  just  over  the 
wire  fence ;  I  wonder  I  did  not  notice  before  how  like  it 
was  to  the  place. 

"  But  you  don't  seem  to  understand  what  I  say, 
auntie ;  you  are  so  full  of  dreams  and  pictures ;  and  I  am 
in  the  main  responsible  for  Mr.  Fitzgerald  going  to  Boat  of 
Garry,  and — and  something  has  got  to  be  put  right,  auntie." 

"  Well,  then,  child,  I  don't  know  what  you  mean,  I 
confess  it,"  the  old  lady  said. 

"  Mr.  Fitzgerald  told  me  something,"  said  Miss  Chet- 
wynd,  with  an  unaccustomed  flush  on  the  clear-cut,  intel- 
ligent face,  "  before  he  left  for  Boat  of  Garry,  and  I 
guessed  more.  Do  not  tell  him  so,  auntie — don't  breathe  a 
word  of  it — but  I  fancy  he  has  been  in  some  trouble,  and 
that  solitary  place  must  have  been  a  dreadful  place  to  be 
in.  I  should  have  thought  of  it.  It  was  my  fault.  But  I 
thought  if  he  were  there  for  a  time  you  would  get  accus- 
tomed to  the  notion  of  some  friend  or  other  occupying  the 
place,  and  then  that  you  might  let  it." 

"  I  have  asked  you  not  to  speak  about  that  Mary.  I 
can  have  only  a  few  years  to  live  ;  and  if  for  that  short  time 
I  choose  to  do  what  I  wish  with  my  own " 

"  Auntie  dear,  don't  speak  like  that  to  me,"  the  girl 
said,  going  to  the  old  lady  and  putting  her  hand  on  her 


SHANDON  BELLS.  289 

shoulder.  "  Surely  you  know  it  was  not  for  my  own  bene- 
fit that  I  thought  of  it.  It  is  not  money  that  is  likely  to 
come  between  you  and  me,  I  hope." 

The  aunt  took  the  girl's  hand  and  patted  it. 

"  No,  no.  You  are  a  good  child.  I  wish  you  were 
more  saving  with  your  money.  Now  what  is  it  you  want 
me  to  do?" 

"  One  of  two  things,  auntie  dear.  After  reading  tliese 
papers,  I  am  quite  distressed  to  think  of  Mr.  Fitzgerald 
being  there  in  that  loneliness  he  describes  ;  and  1  want  you 
to  ask  him  to  come  back  at  once." 

"  Child,  I  want  him  to  have  the  place.  To  whom  else 
could  I  give  it  ?  Who  else  could  have  found  out  the  charm 
of  the  neighborhood  and  written  like  that  ?  No  ;  I  have 
thought  over  it,  Mary.  I  could  neither  sell  nor  let  Boat  of 
Garry ;  and  I  would  not  have  it  go  to  the  Lawrences,  to 
have  all  those  ill-bred  young  cubs  stamping  through  my 
poor  Frank's  rooms  ;  and  what  good  would  it  be  to  }»ou  ? 
— you  would  marry  and  give  it  away  to  somebody  I  know 
nothing  about." 

"  If  you  please,  auntie  dear,  what  I  have  is  quite 
enough,"  said  the  tall  young  lady,  somewhat  frigidly. 

"  Oh  yes,  I  know  ;  and  anything  more  you  might  have 
rou  v/ould  fling  away  in  Whitechapel,"  said  the  old  lady, 
with  a  smile.  "  Well,  then,  why  should  Mr.  Fitzgerald 
come  back  ?  Why  should  he  not  become  familiar  with  the 
place  ?    Why  should  he  not  stay  for  the  shooting  ?  " 

The  niece  remained  silent  for  a  minute  or  so. 

"  Well,  then,  there  is  another  thing  you  must  do,"  she 
said.     "  I  think  you  and  I  might  go  over  to  Boat  of  Garry." 

"  To  Boat  of  Garry !  "  said  the  old  lady,  rather  faintly. 

"  Very  shortly  now,"  said  Miss  Chetwynd,  cheerfully, 
"  everybody  will  be  leaving  town,  and  my  poor  old  auntie 
will  have  nobody  to  bring  her  all  the  wicked  gossip.  Why 
should  not  we  go  too  ?  " 

"  To  Boat  of  Garry,  child  ?  "•  said  the  old  lady,  almost 
reproachfully. 

.    "  It  is  not  like  you,  auntie,  to  think  of  refusing  to  com- 
fort a  friend  in  distress,"  said  her  niece. 

'•  But  what  do  I  know  of  his  distress  ?  And  what  could 
I  do,  since  I  am  not  to  breathe  a  word  about  it  ?  " 

"  Well,  auntie,  I  will  tell  you  the  truth,"  said  the  girl, 
frankly.  "  My  conscience  is  not  quite  clear.  I  was  main- 
ly responsible  for  the  arrangement ;  and  I  am  afraid  w« 


290  SIIANDON  BELLS. 

have  been  ratlier  cruel.  I  should  like  to  see  liow  things 
.are  going  at  Boat  of  Garry ;  perhaps  there  will  be  no  need 
for  us  to  remain  ;  we  could  pay  a  short  visit,  and  then  go 
on  to  Killarney.  I  should  feel  more  at  ease.  I  am  afraid 
Mr.  Fitzi^erald  has  got  into  a  sort  of  morbid  state  through 
being  all  alone  there.  That  may  be  very  good  for  his 
literary  prospects,  and  people  may  begin  and  talk  about 
him  now  and  make  him  famous  ;  but  I  would  rather  have 
nothing  to  do  with  the  great  god  Pan  and  his  fashioning  of 
the  reed  by  the  river." 

"  You  are  asking  a  great  deal  from  me,  Mary,"  said 
Mrs.  Chetwynd,  after  a  while. 

"  I  think  I  am  asking  what  is  right,  auntie." 

"It  will  be  all  the  old  sorrow  over  again,"  she  said, 
absently. 

"  Oh  no,  auntie,  not  that ;  it  will  only  be  beautiful 
memories  now.  I  am  sure  you  w^ould  like  to  see  Dan  and 
Wellington  again,  and  Murtough  and  Kate,  and  the  Ghoul, 
and  old  Father  Time,  and  the  children  up  at  Knockgar- 
ven." 

"  It  is  a  terrible  thing  going  into  an  empty  house, 
child." 

*'  Oh,  but  it  won't  be  empty,  auntie  !  "  said  her  niece, 
cheerfully.  "  We  will  have  the  Ballykilloge  Barrys  over  to 
show  Mr.  Fitzgerald,  if  he  is  to  have  the  place,  what  it  can 
contain  ;  and  we  must  drive  to  Ken  mare  to  see  the  old 
General ;  and  wouldn't  Murtough  be  glad  to  take  us  on  to 
Killarney?" 

"  I  never  thought  to  see  Boat  of  Garry  again,"  said  the 
old  lady,  wistfully. 

"  Indeed,  auntie,  if  I  were  going  to  be  so  munificently 
generous  as  to  make  a  present  to  a  friend  of  a  house  and 
garden  and  shooting  lease,  and  horses  and  carriages,  and 
all  the  rest  of  it,  I  do  think  I  should  want  to  see  how  he 
liked  the  place,  and  if  he  was  properly  grateful.  How  do 
you  know  that  Mr.  Fitzgerald  would  take  it  ?  How  do 
you  know  but  that  he  sees  nothing  in  the  neighborhood  ?  " 

"You  can  judge  by  these  articles,"  said  Mrs.  Chet- 
wynd ;  but  there  was  a  yielding  smile  on  her  face. 

"  You  will  be  able  to  judge,  auntie,  when  Mr.  Fitzger- 
ald drives  us  from  Glengariff ;  and  then  you  will  see 
whether  we  have  been  too  cruel  in  condemning  him  to 
such  a  solitary  banishment.  Now  that's  settled,  auntie, 
and  there  is  not  to  be  another  world" 


SHANDON  BELLS,  291 


CHAPTER  XXVII 

AT  BOAT  OF  GARRY. 


Mary  Chetwyi^d  read  and  re-read  the  "  Occupations  of 
a  Recluse "  until  every  searching  and  sensitive  phrase 
seemed  to  find  an  echo  in  her  heart ;  and  when  at  last,  one 
morning  toward  the  end  of  July,  she  found  herself  stand- 
ing at  a  window  in  tlie  hotel  at  Glengariff,  looking  out  on 
tlie  beautiful  calm  bay  and  the  woods  and  the  mountains, 
it  almost  appeared  to  her  as  if  a  dream  had  become  a  solid 
reality.  For  the  recluse  had  written  a  good  deal  about 
this  neighborhood,  though  not  specifying  names  ;  and  she 
recognized  the  place  now,  not  as  she  had  known  it  in  for- 
mer years,  but  as  transfigured  by  the  new  light  and  color 
he  had  conferred  upon  it.  It  was  the  dream-picture  be- 
come real ;  here  were  all  the  points  of  it — the  rose  hedge, 
the  little  landing-stage,  the  wide  water,  the  Martello  tower, 
and  the  far  ranges  of  the  hills.  The  place  had  a  strange 
interest  for  her.  It  was  something  other  than  the  Glen- 
gariff that  she  used  to  know. 

Her  aunt  came  into  the  room. 

"  I  wonder  whether  Mr.  Fitzgerald  will  come  with  the 
carriage,"  said  the  niece. 

"  I  have  been  wondering,"  said  the  old  lady,  doubt- 
fully, *'  whether  we  should  tell  him  that  we  know  of  his 
having  written  these  articles." 

"  It  can  not  be  long  a  secret ;  everybody  is  certain  to 
find  out." 

"It  needed  the  interposition  of  a  cabinet  minister  be- 
fore we  could  make  sure,''  said  the  aunt,  however. 

"  I  was  sure  from  the  beginning,  auntie.      It   was   only 

you  who  must  needs  go  and  get  Dr.  Bude  to  beg  Mr. 

to  ask  the  editor  of  the  Daily  Mirror.  And  all  that  trou- 
ble for  nothing — you  ought  to  be  ashamed  of  yourself, 
auntie.  Any  one  could  see  the  papers  were  written  about 
Boat  of  Garry." 

"  Scold  yourself,  Mary  Chetwynd  ;  don't  scold  me," 
said  the  old  lady.  "  There  was  no  trouble  about  it.  You 
remember  what  Dr.  Bude  said  the  moment  I  asked  him  ? 


202  SHANDON  BELLS. 

— ^that  it  was  difficult  for  newspaper  editoi-s  to  got  at  the 
Becrets  of  cabinet  ministers,  but  that  the  revei-se  of  the  pro- 
cess would  prove  to  be  easy  enough.  And  a  pretty  thing 
it  would  have  been  if  we  had  come  all  this  way  on  a  mis- 
sion of  charity  and  compassion,  and  found  that  it  was  not 
Mr.  Fitzgerald  at  all  who  had  been  writing  in  the  news- 
papers.    What  would  you  have  said  then  ?  " 

There  was  a  rumble  of  a  carriage  below  in  the  road. 

"  Oh,  auntie,  come  quick  ! "  the  niece  cried.  "  Here 
are  Dan  and  Wellington,  and  Murtough ;  and  here  is  Mr. 
Fitzgerald  too.     But  what  is  he  doing  on  the  box  ?  " 

The  old  lady  went  to  the  window ;  and  when  she  caught 
sight  of  the  empty  carriage,  she  inadvertently  put  her  hand 
on  her  niece's  arm,  without  saying  a  word.  Then  she 
turned  away,  her  eyes  full. 

"Oh,  I  know,'*  said  Mary  Chetwynd,  cheerfully  ( though 
m  her  heart  she  guessed  that  Fitzgerald  had  out  of  delicacy 
refrained  from  presenting  himself  to  the  old  lady  as  tlie 
occupant  of  her  nephew's  place) — *'I  know.  Of  course 
you  must  see  the  scenery  so  much  better  from  the  box.  Of 
course  that  is  it.  Now,  auntie  dear,  are  you  quite  ready  ? 
Are  all  your  things  sent  down  ?  " 

"  I  think  so,  Mary,"  said  Mrs.  Chetwynd,  when  she  had 
recovered  her  composure.  "  You — you  must  make  apolo- 
gies to  Mr.  Fitzgerald  for  our  interrupting  him.  We  sha'n't 
stay  long.  He  may  have  his  own  friends  coming  for  the 
shooting.  We  don't  want  the  carriage  to  take  us  to  Kil- 
larney,  if  you  wish  to  go  back  that  way.     We  can  hire." 

"  I  don't  think  you  would  get  Mr.  Fitzgerald  to  agree  to 
that,  auntie,"  the  younger  lady  said,  quietly. 

Fitzgerald  was  in  the  hall  when  they  went  downstairs ; 
and  he  came  up  and  shook  hands  with  them,  and  said  that 
their  luggage  was  all  in  the  carriage,  and  were  they  ready  ? 
In  this  partial  dusk  he  did  not  seem  changed  at  all,  except 
perhaps  that  his  manner  was  somewhat  grave.  And  he 
rather  avoided  observation,  as  it  were ;  he  waited  until  they 
went  out,  and  then  followed. 

But  when  Mrs.  Chetwynd  and  her  niece  got  into  the 
carriage  they  found  that  the  main  part  of  their  luggage  had 
been  placed  on  the  two  seats  opposite  them,  leaving  no 
further  room.     The  Boots  of  the  hotel  shut  the  door. 

"  Leave  ^hat  open,"  said  Miss  Chetwynd,  almost  angrily. 
"Murtough,  why  is  all  the  luggage  down  here  ?  Mr.  Fitz- 
gerald, they  will  make  room  for  you  in  a  moment." 


SHANDON  BELLS,  293 

"  Oh,  tliank  you,"  said  lie,  going  round  to  the  other  side. 
"  I  will  get  on  the  box." 

"  Certainly  not,"  said  she,  with  promptitude.  "  You 
must  have  seen  everything  that  is  to  be  seen  about  here 
many  a  time.  Murtough,  take  these  things  up  beside  you. 
See,  Mr.  Fitzgerald,  here  is  your  seat  cleared.  Don't  you 
think  that  auntie  and  I  have  had  enough  of  each  other's 
company  during  such  a  long  journey?  And  we  have  all 
the  gossip  of  the  neighborhood  to  get  from  you.  I  suppose 
old  Father  Time  has  a  dozen  more  complaints  about  tho 
Knockgarvan  children  ?  " 

So  Fitzgerald  had  to  take  his  seat  inside  (  the  previous 
arrangement  had  been  a  cunning  device  of  his  own  ),  and 
away  they  drove.  For  a  time  there  was  a  little  embarrass- 
ment. He  was  unaccustomed  to  new  faces;  he  would 
rather  have  been  on  the  box.  Then  Mrs.  Chetwynd  had 
got  it  so  clearly  in  her  mind  that  he  was  already  the  actual 
owner  of  Boat  of  Garry  that  she  kept  making  little  ingen- 
uous excuses  for  their  intrusion.  But  very  soon  the  light 
and  pleasant  humor  of  Mary  Chetwynd,  and  the  clear  frank- 
ness of  her  eyes,  dispersed  these  awkwardnesses,  and  Bantry 
Bay  and  all  its  surroundings  began  (for  him,  at  least)  to 
assume  quite  a  new  and  cheerful  aspect.  Boat  of  Garry, 
too  :  did  he  not  know  that  the  old  gardener,  with  his  stoop, 
and  his  long  hair,  and  his  scythe,  was  familiarly  spoken  of 
as  '*  old  Father  Time  "  ?  Had  he  not  observed  how  Ghoul- 
like was  the  engineer,  stoker,  and  captain  of  the  Black 
Swan  when  he  raised  his  head,  all  smothered  in  coal  dust 
from  the  yacht's  bunkers,  and  glared  through  his  huge  brass- 
rimmed  spectacles?  This  landau  :  had  no  one  told  him  it 
was  properly  called  "the  Ark,"  especially  in  wet  Aveather, 
when  its  vast  capacity  could  have  transported  half  the  neigh- 
boi-hood  safely  through  the  rain  ?  Perhaps  he  had  never 
heard  of  H.M.  S.  Coalscuttle  ?  At  all  events,  she  said,  she 
was  pleased  to  see  that  the  Ghoul  had  not  blown  him  into 
the  air, 

"  I  think  it  is  very  wicked  of  Mary,"  said  the  old  lady, 
"to  come  and  throw  ridicule  on  everything,  and  make  you 
think  light  of  the  place.  Perhaps — perhaps  it  is  from  old 
association,  but  I  consider  Boat  of  Garry  very  pretty." 

"Who  could  say  otherwise  ?"  he  answered.  "It  is  a 
beautiful  neighborhood.'* 

"  But  a  bit  lonely  ?  "  said  Mary  Chetwynd,  timidly. 
"  Oh  no." 


294  SHANDON  BELLS. 

She  raised  her  eyes  in  astonishment. 

"  You  don't  find  it  lonely?  " 

"  Not  in  the  least,"  said  he,  simply.  "  I  mean — that  is 
— well,  perhaps  it  might  be  called  lonely ;  but  I  find  the 
solitariness  of  it  its  chief  charm,  I  think." 

She  was  silent  for  a  second.  Then  she  said,  good-na- 
turedly : — 

"Auntie,  what  do  you  think  of  that^  as  a  compliment? 
Why,  Mr.  Fitzgerald,  we  thought — we  imagined — that  you 
might  be  rather  lonely  here — and — and  we  thought  of  giv- 
ing you  the  pleasure  of  our  company  for  a  week  or  two — I 
mean  a  few  days " 

She  was  clearly  embarrassed ;  but  there  was  a  humor- 
ous smile  on  her  face  all  the  time.  Then  she  looked  up 
with  her  frank  clear  look. 

*'  I  will  confess  the  truth,  Mr.  Fitzgerald.  My  dark  and 
nefarious  scheme  has  failed.  Auntie  won't  let  Boat  of 
Garry." 

"  I  don't  wish  it  even  talked  about,"  said  the  old  lady, 
but  without  sharpness. 

"And  so  you  see  all  my  plotting  and  counter-plotting 
has  only  ended  in  your  having  been  banished  away  from 
human-kind  for  all  this  time." 

"  But  Boat  of  Garry  is  not  such  a  howling  wilderness, 
Miss  Chetwynd,"  he  said,  with  a  smile.  "  Humanity  exists 
there  as  elsewhere  ;  and  human — folly,  shall  we  say  ?  You 
don't  know  what  tragic  passions  may  be  smouldering  in  all 
that  quiet.  Murtough,"  he  said,  lowering  his  voice  some- 
what, "  has  discovered  that  a  man  at  Adrigole  made  Kate 
an  offer  of  marriage  before  she  married  Murtough " 

"  I  know  she  came  to  me  about  it.  Why  did  the  stupid 
girl  not  tell  her  husband?  What  harm  was  there  in 
that?" 

"  Why,  none.  Only  the  pitiableness  of  it,"  he  said, 
absently.  "  It  is  merely  the  old  story.  When  you  see  three 
jackdaws  flying  along  together  in  springtime  you  know 
what  a  story  of  jealousy  and  hatred  and  madness  that 
means,  and  how  one  poor  chap  is  doomed  to  an  inevi- 
table fate.  But  it  appears  that  the  gentleman  from  Adri- 
gole, having  recently  taken  to  drink,  and  idleness,  and 
Fenianism,  and  so  on,  is  now  desirous  of  renewing  his  ac- 
quaintance with  Kate  ;  so  there  is  to  be  a  tremendous  head- 
smashing  when  he  and  Murtough  meet." 


SHANDON  BELLS.  295 

''  I  will  put  an  end  to  that,"  she  said,  promptly,  '*  for  I 
know  Pat  Carey's  master." 

"I  am  afraid  Pat  Carey  hasn't  any  master  to  speak  of 
now,"  said  he.     "  But  Murtough  can  hold  his  own." 

For  a  time  there  was  silence ;  and  only  the  driving 
through  the  delicious  air  ;  and  the  opening  out  of  the  beau- 
ties of  the  far-reacliing  bay.  Mary  Chetwynd  was  afraid 
she  had  said  too  mucl\  about  his  loneliness.  She  could  not 
explain  to  him,  here  and  now,  what  she  had  been  guessing 
about  him  from  these  writings.  She  had  been  listening  to 
inner  secrets  when  she  was  reading  those  papers.  Now 
everytliing  seemed  so  ordinary  and  matter  of  fact — as  he 
])ointed  out  where  the  coal  smack  had  come  to  grief,  or 
asked  Mrs.  Chetwynd  if  she  had  read  Professor  Sims's 
lecture,  or  got  Murtough  to  stop  the  carriage  so  that  he 
could  get  out  to  walk  a  steep  part  of  the  road.  And  yet, 
sometimes,  when  he  was  absently  looking  away  over  the 
wide  expanse  of  water,  there  was  a  look  in  his  eyes  that 
told  her  something  she  had  only  imagined,  and  that  con- 
vinced her  that  this  visit  on  the  j^art  of  her  aunt  and  her- 
self was  not  so  much  amiss. 

When  they  swept  round  the  gravel-drive  and  drew  up 
in  front  of  the  house,  it  was  Miss  Chetwynd's  aim  to  make 
a  rare  bustle,  so  that  her  aunt  should  have  no  opportunity 
of  indulging  in  sad  recollections.  Sure  enough,  here  was 
old  Father  Time,  with  his  scythe,  just  finishing  off  the 
lawn ;  and  here  was  the  pretty  Kate,  all  smiling  and 
pleased  ;  and  Tim  was  sent  to  bring  the  dogs ;  and  the 
Ghoul  was  to  be  summoned  to  report  about  the  new  boiler. 
But  indeed  Mrs.  Chetwynd  did  not  seem  to  mind  as  much 
as  had  been  expected  her  entering  this  house.  It  Avas  far 
from  being  an  empty  house.  Everything  was  noise  and 
turmoil  and  confusion.  And  when  at  last  something  like 
order  had  been  restored,  and  when  the  three  sat  down  to 
lunch,  Mrs.  Chetwynd,  so  far  from  being  dejected,  said 
with  a  smile  on  the  pretty,  bright  old  face. 

"Why,  Mary,  this  is  quite  like  old  times." 

The  luncheon  was  not  a  sumptuous  one ;  but  the  old 
lady  was  obviously  highly  pleased — with  something  or 
other. 

"  Your  telegram,  Mrs.  Chetwynd,  came  late  last  night," 
Fitzgerald  said,  "  and  I  had  to  get  away  early  this  morning, 
or  I  should  have  tried  to  get  you  a  sea-trout,  or  a  brace  of 
wood-pigeons,  or  something." 


200  SHANDON  BELLS. 

'^  Oh,  but  this  will  do  capitally,"  she  said,  "  If  Kate 
would  only  let  us  have  some  wine.  I  hope  you  found  the 
wine  to  your  liking,  Mr.  Fitzgerald  ?  " 

"I — I  have  no  doubt  it  is  excellent,"  said  he,  flushing 
somewhat. 

*'  But  you  don't  mean  to  say  you  have  not  tried  it — all 
this  time  ?  "  said  she,  staring. 

"  The  beer  is  very  good  indeed,"  said  he  evasively. 

The  old  lady  looked  at  her  niece,  as  if  to  say,  "  There 
is  something  to  be  amended  here"  ;  but  she  said  notliing. 

Then  she  began  to  cross-examine  him  about  his  impres- 
sions of  the  place,  and  his  pursuits,  and  so  forth,  just  as  if 
she  had  never  heard  about  the  "  Occupations  of  a  Recluse." 
Pid  he  like  the  situation  of  the  house  ?  The  shooting  prom- 
ised to  be  good  this  year  ?  And  how  about  the  winter — 
would  it  not  be  a  terribly  dull  place  in  winter  ?  And  she 
was  very  much  surprised  that  he  had  not  made  any  use  of 
the  Blade  Swan. 

"  I  don't  know  much  about  steam-yachts,"  said  lie, 
"  but  I  suppose  it  costs  a  good  in  coals  before  you  can  get 
steam  up  ?  " 

"  A  trifle — a  mere  trifle,"  she  said.  '*  Surely  it  was  not 
that  that  hindered  you  ?  " 

"  I  thought  if  you  were  letting  the  place,  it  miglit  be  as 
well  to  have  a  full  stock  of  coals  in  the  boat,"  said  he. 

"  Never  mind,  auntie,"  said  the  niece.  "  You  and  I  and 
Mr.  Fitzgerald  will  all  have  a  famous  trip  to-morrow, 
if  the  day  is  fine,  and  we  will  see  what  the  new  boiler  can 
do." 

"  Not  I,"  said  the  old  lady,  -with  decision.  "  You  two 
may  go  if  you  like.  I  wish  to  end  my  days  in  a  peaceable 
kind  of  way." 

"  Mr.  Fitzgerald,"  said  Miss  Chetwynd,  "have  you  ever 
steered  a  small  steam-yacht  ?  " 

"  I  have  never  been  on  board  one." 

"Well,  the  sensation  will  be  a  new  one  for  you — you 
must  not  miss  it.  You  will  have  the  pleasing  impression 
that  a  wild  beast  has  run  away  with  you,  and  that  you 
haven't  the  least  notion  against  what  it  is  going  to  rush. 
Then  the  Ghoul  is  generally  below  at  his  fires  ;  and  I  sup- 
pose you  don't  know  much  about  the  navigation  of  Bantry 
Bay?" 

"Nothing  whatever." 

"  That  is  still  more  excellent,"   she  continued,  gravely 


SHANDON  BELLS.  297 

"  And  when  you  see  the  finger  of  the  dial  informing  you 
that  you  are  about  twenty  pounds  above  the  registered 
pressure,  you  don't  know  how  to  let  off  the  steam,  I  sup- 
pose ?  " 

"  Certainly  not." 

"Capital! — capital !  It  will  be  the  greatest  enjoyment 
of  your  life.  The  Ghoul  will  be  below  ;  pressure  will  be 
100  pounds  on  tlie  square  inch  ;  the  wild  beast  will  be  run- 
ning away  with  you ;  and  you  don't  know  where  the  rocks 
are.  And  yet  they  say  that  Boat  of  Garry  is  a  sleepy,  un- 
exciting sort  of  place !" 

"If  you  don't  mind,  Miss  Chetwynd,  I  Avould  rather 
leave  the  management  of  that  wild  war  steed  to  you." 

"Tome?  Oh,  no.  When  there  is  a  man  on  board,  of 
course  the  man  steers.     It  isn't  a  woman'^i  place." 

"  But  suppose  the  man  prefers  to  stay  on  shore  ?  " 

"  Then  you  are  afraid  ?  " 

"Yes,  I  am." 

"I  thought  men  never  acknowledged  that." 

"  It  does  not  much  matter  whether  they  acknowledge  it 
or  not.  If  you  put  a  man  on  a  railway  engine,  and  start  it, 
and  send  him  careering  along  the  line  without  any  power  to 
stop,  and  then  if  you  ask  him  whether  he  is  quite  hap])y, 
and  he  says  '  Yes,'  you  can  judge  for  yourself  whether  he 
is  a  truthful  person." 

"  Besides,"  continued  the  young  lady,  in  the  same  calm 
and  placid  manner,  "you  know  you  have  to  get  the  yacht 
out  of  the  creek  first ;  and  the  deep  channel  is  about  a 
dozen  yards  wide  ;  and  it  twists  between  rocks  ;  and  tlie 
currents  are  fearful." 

"  Mary  Chetwynd !"  said  her  aunt,  angrily,  and  then 
she  turned  to  Fitzgerald.  "  I  don't  know  what  has  got  into 
her  head,  but  she  seems  determined  to  put  you  out  of  con- 
ceit with  the  whole  place.  The  yacht  is  as  safe  as  sitting  in 
that  easy-chair — why,  look  at  the  new  boiler !  And  it  is 
most  delightful  to  be  able  to  go  away  on  a  perfectly  still 
day — when  an  ordinary  yacht  would  be  unable  to  move — 
and  go  as  far  out  as  you  please,  and  have  luncheon  there, 
and  come  back  just  when  it  suits  you.  I  would  go  with 
you  myself  to-morrow — " 

*'  Only — ?  "  said  the  niece. 

"  Only  what  ?  " 

"I  wanted  to  know  what  the  excuse  was  to  be  this 
time,  auntie  dear,"  said  the  imperturbable  young  lady. 


298  SHANDON  BELLS. 

"  But  I  mean  to  go,"  said  Mrs.  Chetwynd,  valiantly. 

"  Now  you  know  very  well,  auntie,  you  are  as  sensitive 
as  a  cat,  and  the  least  speck  of  dirt  on  your  face  or  on  your 
hands  makes  you  fidgety  and  miserable  ;  and  when  H.M.S. 
Coalscuttle  does  take  it  into  its  head  to  throw  up  a  cloud  of 
wet  soot  at  starting — " 

"But  wc  can  go  below  until  she  has  started,"  the  aunt 
said. 

"  Who  is  to  steer,  then  ? '' 

"  Tim  can  steer." 

"  He  knows  no  more  of  the  rocks  than  the  man  in  the 
moon.  Besides,  would  you  miss  the  expression  of  the 
Ghoul's  face  when  he  gets  to  the  Narrows  ?" 

"  Come  away,  Mr.  Fitzgerald,"  said  the  old  lady,  "  and 
we  will  have  coffee  outside.  If  you  stay  here  any  longer, 
Mary  will  persuade  you  that  sea  air  is  poisonous,  and  that 
Boat  of  Garry  is  celebrated  for  small-pox." 

Now  this  fighting,  which  had  been  brought  about  of  set 
purpose  by  Mary  Chetwynd,  had  the  desired  effect  of  tying 
down  the  attention  of  the  old  lady  to  the  affairs  of  the  mo- 
ment ;  and  it  was  wonderful  with  what  little  concern — how 
easily  and  naturally — she  now  took  her  accustomed  seat  on 
the  bench  outside  the  porch  and  looked  around.  Tlie  or- 
deal she  had  feared  was  no  ordeal  at  all.  She  was  regard- 
ing the  trim-cut  lawn,  and  the  masses  of  rhododendrons, 
and  the  openings  through  the  trees  which  revealed  glimpses 
of  the  sea  and  distant  hills ;  and  she  was  thinking  that  for 
a  man  of  letters  no  more  desirable  haven  of  rest  could  have 
been  found.  Was  it  a  wonder  that  he  had  written  those 
charming  papers  in  this  dream-like  quiet?  The  world 
seemed  filled  with  sunlight  here ;  and  yet  there  was  a  slight 
cool  breeze  coming  over  from  the  sea  to  temper  the  heat ; 
and  as  it  passed  along  it  stirred  some  lime-trees  down  there 
by  the  rivulet,  and  the  sweet  scent  -was  all  around.  And 
the  old  lady  was  very  pleased  to  see  the  place  looking  so 
beautiful ;  and  she  was  pretty  sure  in  her  own  mind  that 
a  contemplative  student  would  be  glad  enough  to  have  it 
as  a  gift,  and  to  remain  there  for  a  portion  of  the  year  a^. 
least,  and  do  the  best  work  of  which  he  was  capable  in  it, 
and  perhaps  also  submit  to  be  bothered — for  a  week  or  two 
in  the  summer — by  a  visit  from  two  idle  women  escaping 
into  this  gracious  quiet  from  the  clang  of  London  life. 

Occupied  by  this  pleasing  fancy,  the  old  lady,  accom« 
panied  by  the  two  younger  people,  now  set  out  on  an  in 


SHANDON  BELLS,  299 

Bpection  of  the  place.  Father  Time  received  high  praise 
for  the  condition  of  the  garden.  Then  they  visited  the 
kennel,  and  the  stables,  and  the  fowl-house,  and  what  not ; 
and,  as  the  day  was  so  beautiful,  Mrs.  Chetwynd  said  she 
thought  she  could  walk  as  far  as  the  shore,  and  have  a  look 
at  the  Black  Swan  lying  at  her  moorings. 

But  to  do  this  they  had  to  return  to  the  house  and  take 
a  road  leading  somewhat  inland  from  the  marshy  stretches 
lying  alongside  the  creek  ;  and  they  were  leisurely  walking 
along,  chatting,  and  watching  birds  and  butterflies  and  so 
forth,  when  Fitzgerald  suddenly  discovered  that  right  ahead 
of  them,  at  some  distance,  stood  the  Knockgarvan  bull, 
calmly  contemplating  them,  and  apparently  disposed  to 
contest  their  right  of  way.  It  was  an  awkward,  even  a 
serious,  situation.  He  knew  the  beast  and  its  ill  temper, 
and  had,  indeed,  passed  it  several  times,  tliough  on  these 
occasions  he  had  been  accompanied — as  was  his  wont  in 
going  about — with  one  or  other  of  the  dogs,  and  when  there 
is  a  dog  about,  the  bull  does  not  pay  much  attention  to  its 
master.  However,  now  there  was  no  help  for  it;  there 
was  no  gate  for  the  two  women  to  go  through,  no  wall  for 
them  to  get  behind ;  and  he  knew  very  well  that  the  first 
symptom  of  fear  or  retreat  would  be  the  first  inducement 
for  the  bull  to  pursue.  Moreover,  he  dared  not  even  tell 
his  companions  of  their  danger;  for  he  Av\as  afraid  the  old 
lady  might  scream  and  try  to  run  away,  and  there  was  ab- 
solutely no  shelter.  So  he  continued  talking  in  a  loud  and 
unconcerned  way,  carefully  keeping  a  short  distance  ahead 
of  the  two  ladies. 

"  Oh  yes,  Mrs.  Chetwynd,"  he  was  saying  (with  an  anx- 
ious eye  on  the  bull  all  the  time),  "that  purple  loosestrife 
is  a  very  handsome  plant  when  you  see  it  growing  by  the 
wayside — very  handsome  —  yes  —  splendid  color  out  of 
doors " 

Here  he  had  come  within  stone's-throw  of  the  bull  which 
stood  immovable  but  for  the  angry  flapping  about  of  its 
tail.  He  picked  up  a  pebble  and  carelessly  shied  it  at  the 
animal. 

"  Get  out  of  that !  "  he  growled,  with  apparent  indiffer- 
ence, and  forthwith  continued  his  talking. 

"  — but  it  is  worth  nothing  indoors.  It  does  not  tell  in 
a  room.  It  loses  the  pink  and  becomes  purple.  I  told  Tim 
to  cut  a  lot,  and  meant  to  put  them  in  the  dining-room 
when  you  came ;  but  I  found  they  would  not  do — " 


800  SIIANDON  BELLS. 

Here  the  animal  gave  alow,  warning  bellow  ;  but  there 
was  nothing  for  it.  He  kept  on  talking ;  always  a  little 
ahead  of  his  companions  ;  and  he  knew  the  time  was  come, 
for  good  or  ill. 

"  Mr.  Fitzgerald,"  said  Mrs.  Chetwynd,  anxiously, 
"  hadn't  we  better  go  back " 

"  Oh  no,"  said  he,  carelessly.  "  Come  along.  It  is  only 
one  of  the  Knockgarvan  beasts  strayed  down  from  the  farm. 
Get  out  of  the  way^  wiU  you  f  " 

He  lifted  this  time  a  big  stone — what  in  those  districts 
is  called  a  rock — and  pitched  it  at  the  brute,  intending  to 
miss  him.  By  dire  mischance  the  lump  of  stone  landed  on 
the  animal's  nose  ;  and  Master  Willie's  heart  at  the  same 
moment  leaped  to  his  mouth,  for  he  was  convinced  that  the 
beast  would  not  endure  such  an  insult.  But  slowly  and 
sulkily,  and  with  deep  mutterings  and  flapping  of  the  tail, 
the  coward  brute  yielded  its  dignity,  and  crossed  a  ditcli, 
and  went  into  the  adjoining  pasture.  Fitzgerald  was  much 
too  prudent  ta  try  a  repetition  of  the  stone-heaving.  He 
let  well  alone. 

"I  was  saying,"  he  continued,  as  if  nothing  had  hap- 
pened, "  that  loosestrife  isn't  good  for  lighting  up  a  room. 
Fox-gloves  are  better ;  but  even  they  are  too  purple.  Now 
a  splendid  show  of  wild  flowers  is  to  get  the  marigolds  that 
grow  in  the  corn  here,  and  mix  them  up  with  meadow- 
sweet  " 

He  cautiously  turned  his  head  ;  the  bull — at  some  dis- 
tance— was  regarding  them,  but  evidently  not  inclined  to 
follow.  In  a  few  more  minutes  they  were  down  at  the  little 
landing-slip;  and  here  was  the  Ghoul,  otherwise.  Shell 
Glanny — a  great,  awkward-looking  man,  with  bushy  black 
hair  and  brass-rimmed  spectacles — seated  on  the  beach,  tar- 
ring a  broken-down  old  punt. 

"  Shell,"  said  Fitzgerald  to  him,  under  his  breath,  "  haul 
in  the  boat  there,  and  I'll  row  the  ladies  out  to  the  yacht. 
And  then  you'll  go  back  to  the  house,  and  tell  Tim  to  bring  a 
couple  of  the  dogs  along  the  road,  and  drive  the  Knockgarvan 
bull  up  to  the  farm.  And  you'll  tell  him  to  tell  the  boy 
that  the  next  time  he  lets  the  beast  go  wandering  down  here 
like  that,  I'll  come  up  with  a  stick  and  beat  him  till  he's 
black  and  blue." 

"  Sure  I'll  do  it  mesilf  now,  sir,''  said  Shell,  looking 
about  for  an  instrument. 

Then   it   occurred  to  Fitzgerald  that  this  was  a  most 


SIJANDON  BELLS.  301 

injudicious   threat,  seeing  how   near  the  shooting  season 
was. 

"  No,"  said  he ;  "  Tim  is  to  give  the  boy  this  shilling, 
and  say  I  am  much  obliged  to  him  for  keeping  his  dog  from 
hunting  ;  and,  while  the  ladies  are  here,  would  he  see  that 
the  bull  is  kept  up  at  the  farm  ?  " 

"  Well,  well,  sir,"  said  Sheil,  going  away  rather  down- 
faced,  and  no  doubt  thinking  that  it  was  throwing  away 
a  shilling  when  a  beating  would  have  done  as  well  or 
better. 

So  Fitzgerald  got  into  the  big  boat,  and  rowed  the  two 
ladies  (he  noticed  that  Mrs.  Chetwynd  kept  a  hand  tightly 
grasping  the  gunwale  all  the  time,  though  the  water  was 
like  glass)  out  to  the  Black  Swan^  and  got  them  on  board. 
She  was  a  smart  enough  looking  yacht  of  about  fifty  feet  in 
length,  with  a  small  cabin  aft,  and  a  larger  one  forward  ; 
and  as  there  was  a  pretty  strong  odor  of  new  paint  about, 
it  was  clear  that  Sheil  Glanny  had  been  occupying  his  spare 
time  usefully.  Indeed,  so  anxious  did  the  old  lady  seem 
that  Fitzgerald  should  express  approval  of  the  little  yacht 
that  even  her  niece  refrained  from  making  disrespectful 
comments  ;  nay,  she  even  undertook  to  make  a  cup  of  tea 
for  them,  until  she  found  that  all  the  small  lockers  were 
locked,  and  that  there  was  neither  tea  nor  anything  else  to 
be  got  at  on  board. 

"  I  think  she  is  a  beautiful  little  boat,  and  very  handy 
and  convenient,"  said  Fitzgerald,  to  the  old  lady's  great 
delight.  "  I  had  no  idea  there  was  such  room  in  her. 
Why,  half  a  dozen  people  could  sleep  on  board.  And  with 
that  twisting  channel  down  at  the  mouth  of  the  creek,  a 
sailing  yacht  would  never  be  able  to  get  in  here.  To-mor- 
row, then,  Mrs.  Chetwynd,  would  you  like  to  take  a  trip  ? 
for  I  will  tell  Sheil  about  getting  up  steam." 

"  If — if  you  wish  it,"  said  Mrs.  Chetwynd,  rather  doubt- 
fully. 

*'  Don't  drive  auntie  into  a  corner,"  said  the  niece, 
laughing.  "  She  would  be  trembling  all  the  time.  No  ; 
she  shall  come  down  to  the  beach ;  and  I  will  go  with  you, 
if  you  like,  for  I  know  the  way  down  the  creek  ;  and  wo 
will  have  a  short  run  out  and  back,  and  pick  up  auntie  again. 
How  will  that  do  ?  " 

"  It  will  do  very  well,"  said  the  old  lady,  "  if  you  are 
not  in  one  of  your  scornful  moods.  But  when  Mr.  Fitz 
gerald  knows  you  a  little  better,  he  will  know  when  you  are- 
speaking  the  truth  and  when  you  are  not." 


302  SHANDON  BELLS, 

When  they  got  back  to  the  house  again  (there  was  no 
bull  to  contest  their  passage  this  time)  Fitzgerald  took  out 
his  fishing-rod,  and  said  he  was  going  down  to  the  stream 
to  see  if  he  could  get  a  sea-trout  for  their  dinner,  while  the 
two  ladies  had  tea  brought  them  to  the  little  table  outside 
the  porch. 

"  Mary,"  said  Mrs.  Chetwynd,  after  a  time — what  a 
beautiful,  quiet,  golden  afternoon  it  was  !  " — "  I  wish  you 
would  write  to  Mr.  McGee,  and  ask  him  to  come  over  and 
see  me.  Or  we  can  send  up  the  yacht  for  him,  if  that  will 
suit  him  best." 

**  Very  well,  auntie,"  said  the  younger  lady,  dutifully  ; 
"  but  I  think  you  are  making  a  mistake." 

"  Why  ?  "        , 

"  I  have  seen  it  brewing  all  day  long.  The  place  looks 
pretty ;  Mr.  Fitzgerald  is  pleased  with  it,  and  you  are 
proud  of  it — and  you  have  gone  back  to  your  old  notion  of 
givinor  it  to  him." 

"Well?" 

"  What  would  he  do  with  it  ?  He  has  no  money  to 
keep  it  up,  as  poor  Frank  had*.  You  couldn't  expect  him 
to  live  here  all  his  life,  in  any  case — a  young  man  like  that, 
with  a  great  career  before  him.  Why,  you'd  never  even 
have  the  satisfaction  of  seeing  him  to  let  him  say  '  Thank 
you  '  for  your  kindness.  Besides,  I  wouldn't  trust  the  con- 
veyancing of  a  valuable  property  to  Mr.  McGee." 

"Really,  Mary,"  said  her  aunt,  with  a  little  laugh, 
*'  you  must  have  been  thinking  about  it  as  much  as  I  have 
all  day.  But  some  of  your  objections  meet  each  other.  I 
don't  want  Mr.  McGee  to  convey  the  property,  but  to  come 
over  and  make  a  calculation  as  to  what  would  be  necessary 
to  keep  it  up  as  it  stands.  When  I  present  a  picture  I  like 
to  present  it  framed.  And  then,  no  doubt,  if  what  people 
say  about  these  writings  is  true,  no  doubt  Mr.  Fitzgerald 
would  have  to  live  a  part  of  the  year  in  London ;  and  I  am 
sure  you  would  be  as  glad  to  see  him  as  I  should  be,  for  the 
more  I  see  of  him  I  like  him  the  better ;  and — and  in  a 
measure  I  should  like  him  to  be  to  us  what — what  my  poor 
boy  was.  Well,  that  means  money.  That  means  an  allow- 
ance, Mary.     Do  you  think  he  is  not  deserving  of  it  ?  '^ 

"  I  wouldn't  say  that,  auntie  dear.  But  all  the  deserv 
ing  people  don't  meet  with  such  a  kind  friend.  I  suppose 
he  will  continue  to  write.      You  know,  auntie — ^now  don't 


SHANDON  BELLS,  '  8(1 -J 

bo  cross,  for  I  am  only  talking  common  sense — I  think  you 
were  too  good  to  poor  Frank;  and  many  a  time  I  wished 
he  would  give  up  his  hunting,  and  come  and  do  some  kind 
of  useful  thing." 

"  Now,  Mary,  that  is  enough,"  said  the  aunt,  but  with- 
out anger.  "  We  are  not  all  reformers  and  politicians  like 
you.  If  my  poor  boy  pleased  himself,  that  is  enough  for 
me ;  that  is  what  I  like  to  think  of.  But  there's  always 
good  sense  in  what  you  say,  Mary.  Of  course  I  should  not 
dream  of  making  Mr.  Fitzgerald  such  an  allowance  as  would 
make  him  independent  and  careless.  Oh  no.  But  I  think 
I  can  trust  the  lad.  I  like  the  look  of  his  eyes.  And  if  he 
can  not  be  everytliing  that  my  boy  was  to  me — well,  at  my 
time  of  life  one  is  glad  to  be  able  to  do  what  kindness  one 
can  ;  and  1  don't  see  any  one  else  to  whom  I  would  rather 
give  Boat  of  Garry." 

The  niece  was  silent  for  a  little  while. 

*'  Auntie,"  said  she  at  length,  "  if  you  are  quite  resolved 
upon  this,  will  you  allow  me  to  tell  him  to-morrow  ?  " 

"  Yes.     Why  not  ?  " 

''  There  are  one  or  two  things  I  should  like  to  say  to 
him — if  you  don't  mind." 

"  Why  not  ?  Who  knows  all  the  circumstances  of  the 
case  better  than  you  ?  Well,  now  Mary,  I  am  going  to  my 
room  to  lie  down  for  a  while ;  but  you  may  come  and 
knock  at  my  door  before  dinner." 

Master  Willie  was  not  fortunate  that  afternoon,  foi 
there  was  not  a  breath  of  wind,  and  the  surface  of  the 
pools  was  like  glass;  and  he  was  returning  to  the  house 
rather  disheartened — not  knowing  that  the  Ghoul  had  got 
two  splendid  flounders,  a  cod,  and  a  skate  in  his  drift-net, 
and  that  Tim,  who  had  been  sent  up  the  hill,  was  bringing 
back  a  brace  of  mountain  hares  and  a  couple  of  teal — 
when  he  met  Miss  Chetwynd.  She  was  trying  to  plait 
rushes,  and  not  succeeding  very  well. 

"  Mr.  Fitzgerald,"  said  she,  looking  up  with  those  clear 
blue-gray  eyes  of  hers,  "  was  not  that  rather  an  ill-tempered 
bull  we  met  this  afternoon  ?  " 

"  It  does  not  like  strangers." 

"  And  we  were  in  some  danger?'* 

*'  Well,"  said  he,  hesitatingly,  "  something  might  have 
happened." 

"  I  thought  so,"  she  said,  regarding  him.  "  And  yet 
you  would  not  tell  us  we  were  in  danger." 


304  SIIANDON  BELLS. 

*'  What  would  have  been  the  use  ?  I  should  only  liavo 
frightened  your  aunt,  and  made  more  mischief." 

"If  my  aunt  had  not  been  there,  would  you  have  told 
me?"  and  for  a  second  her  frank,  shrewd,  inquiring  eyes 
met  his. 

*'  Yes,  I  think  I  would  have  told  you,"  he  said. 


CHAPTER  XXYIII. 

THE   BLACK   SWAN. 

Mary  Chetwynd's  manner  was  ordinarily  marked  by 
a  perfect  ease  and  simplicity ;  it  seemed  to  suit  the  sin- 
cerity of  her  eyes;  women  noticed  it,  and  found  her  com- 
panionable ;  sick  children  were  glad  to  be  nursed  by  her ; 
poor  people  did  not  become  self-conscious  when  she  entered 
their  door ;  at  her  aunt's  table  she  spoke  to  guests  and  ser- 
vants in  precisely  the  same  voice;  she  had  the  same  smile, 
the  same  frank  look,  for  every  one.  All  this  pertness 
of  humor  she  had  displayed  since  their  arrival  at  Boat  of 
Garry  had  been  assumed  ;  but  it  had  answered  its  purpose  ; 
the  old  lady  had  taken  quite  naturally  to  the  place  ;  there 
were  no  fits  of  despondency  or  gloomy  reminiscences.  But 
when  she  herself  drew  near  the  true  object  of  their  visit, 
she  became  more  grave,  and  again  and  again  found  herself 
wishing  that  these  explanations  were  well  over.  At  all 
events,  chance  provided  her  with  an  ample  opportunity  of 
making  them. 

Next  morning  Mrs.  Chetwynd  had  almost  resolved  to 
go  on  board  the  Black  Swan,  and  even  went  down  to  the 
shore  of  the  creek  with  them;  but  at  the  last  moment  she 
changed  her  mind,  and  said  she  would  go  to  the  hill  above 
the  house,  from  which  she  could  see  them  sail  away  out 
into  Bantry  Bay  and  back.  But  this  hesitation  had  caused 
delay  ;  and  when  at  length  Miss  Chetwynd  and  Fitzgerald 
and  Tim,  the  keepei-,  got  on  board  the  little  yacht  they 
found  the  Ghoul  in  a  state  of  great  excitement  and  impa- 
tience. There  was  a  rapid  ebb-tide  running ;  steam  was  up 
to  within  five  pounds  of  the  extreme  registered  pressure: 
the  donkey-engine  was  rattling  away  as  if  it  were  in  a  tin 


SHANDON  BELLS.  305 

box  ;  and  Slieil  Glanny  was  here,  there,  and  everywhere — > 
at  the  moorings,  at  the  furnace  door,  at  the  waste-pipe,  at 
the  coals.  And  then,  before  Fitzgerald  fairly  knew  where 
he  was  amid  all  the  uproar,  he  found  himself  with  a  rope 
in  his  hand,  and  the  rope  was  attached  to  a  hauling  and 
jerking  and  tlirobbing  iron  tiller,  and  he  knew  that  the 
Black  Swan  was  forging  ahead  just  anywhere,  for  the  con- 
densers had  not  arrived,  and  he  was  enveloped  in  steam, 
not  even  the  bow  of  the  boat  being  visible. 

"  Miss  Chetwynd,"  he  called  aloud — for  the  Ghoul  was 
down  in  the  bunkers  again — "  have  you  any  notion  where 
we  are  going  ?  " 

"  Not  the  least,"  said  she.     "  But  Tim  is  at  the  bow." 

However,  the  steam  abated,  or  else  the  wind  freshened  ; 
at  all  events,  he  began  to  get  glimpses  of  his  surroundings, 
and  strove  as  near  as  he  could  to  keep  this  raging  little 
beast  in  mid-channfd  And  what  a  noise  it  made ! — or 
rather  a  succession  of  noises,  each  distinct,  and  each  sharply 
following  the  other.  And  then  there  was  still  another — a 
sudden,  brain-dividing  shriek,  twice  repeated  ;  and  he  saw 
that  Miss  Chetwynd  had  hold  of  the  brass  chain  of  the 
steam-whistle. 

"  That  is  a  signal  to  auntie  :  do  you  think  she  will  hear  ?  " 
she  said — or  shouted. 

"Hear?"  he  answered.  "  They  will  hear  it  at  New 
York.  I  believe  you  have  killed  every  curlew  within  six 
miles  of  us." 

Then  to  his  unspeakable  satisfaction,  the  great  black- 
headed  creature  with  the  big  brass-iimmed  spectacles  came 
on  deck  again,  and  assumed  charge  of  the  tiller,  calling 
Tim  along  to  help  at  the  same  moment.  It  was  evident 
they  were  approaching  the  dreaded  Narrows.  Now  and 
again  in  the  deep  clear  water  some  sudden  flashes  of  golden 
brown  were  seen — the  long  arms  of  the  sea-weed.  Far 
ahead  there  were  some  strange-looking  swirls,  silver  curl- 
ings on  the  glassy  blue,  though  no  rocks  were  visible. 
Moreover,  as  they  drew  nearer  and  nearer  to  this  narrow 
channel,  it  was  very  apparent  that  the  tide  was  flowing 
seaward  like  a  mill-race. 

"  We  should  have  started  an  hour  before,"  said  Miss 
Chetwynd,  looking  rather  apprehensively  at  the  swirling 
water. 

'*  At  all  events  we  can't  turn  and  face  that  tide  now/ 
her  companion  observed. 


806  SHANDON  BELLS, 

The  Ghoul  was  paying  heed,  not  to  them,  but  to  the 
course  of  the  water  ajid  the  lay  of  the  shore.  Then  he 
shouted. 

"  Hard  over,  Tim  !  " 

Fitzgerald  lent  a  hand  too,  and  the  iron  tiller  was 
jammed  over.  Of  course  he  looked  to  see  the  yacht  swing 
round.  She  did  nothing  of  the  kind.  The  current  was 
too  much  for  her  steering-way.  There  was  a  slight  scratch 
— a  sort  of  grating  sensation — only  for  the  briefest  possible 
point  of  time. 

Fitzgerald  looked  at  Miss  Chetwynd — with  a  natural 
sort  of  inquiry  ;  for  she  knew  more  about  this  performance 
than  he  did.     He  found  she  was  regarding  him  and  waitintj. 

They  had  not  long  to  wait.  In  fact,  the  whole  thing 
had  happened  before  they  had  had  time  to  think.  Immedi- 
ately following  that  grating  scratch  along  the  keel  there  was 
a  distinct  and  solid  bump  that  shook  the  yacht  from  stem 
to  stern  ;  the  Ghoul  sprang  forward  to  shut  off  the  steam  ; 
there  was  the  slightest  tilting  over  of  the  boat ;  and  then, 
after  all  this  excitement  and  noise,  the  strangest  imaginable 
silence.  Everybody  stood  still,  doing  nothing.  The 
Ghoul  looked  away  astern  in  a  reproachful  kind  of  way. 
Then  Fitzgerald  began  to  wonder  whether  she  was 
aground  on  rock,  or  on  shingle,  or  on  mud,  and  whether 
she  would  remain  upright.  And  then  various  examina- 
tions and  surmises  and  sujjsrestions  resolved  themselves  to 
this — that  they  were  stuck  here  for  five  hours  at  least,  with 
the  compensation  that  the  summer  day  was  beautiful,  and 
around  them  a  perfect  and  delicious  quiet. 

"  iTou  know,  Miss  Chetwynd,"  Fitzgerald  said  at  length, 
"  Tim  and  I  might  manage  to  get  you  ashore  in  the  boat. 
We  should  be  whirled  along  a  good  bit,  but  that  would 
only  give  you  another  quarter  of  a  mile  to  walk  back  to 
the  house." 

"Would  you  have  me  desert  the  ship?"  she  said. 
"  What  might  become  of  Shell  if  he  were  left  alone  ?  You 
could  never  pull  the  boat  back  to  the  yacht  again  against 
that  current.  Besides,  when  the  tide  rises  high  enough  to 
float  the  yacht  again  who  knows  what  will  happen  ?  " 

"  But  five  hours — "  said  he. 

"Mr.  Fitzgerald,"  said  she,  somewhat  diffidently,  "I — I 
have  something  to  tell  you  that — that  won't  take  up  five 
hours,  perhaps,  but  that  will  give  you  plenty  to  think  over 
for  that  time." 


SHANDON  BELLS.  307 

'*  Not  loo  serious  ?  "  he  said. 

"  Oh  no.     Not  at  all.     I  hope  not,"  she  said. 

So  they  had  to  set  to  work  to  make  themselves  com- 
fortable during  this  enforced  detention.  Fortunately  the 
Black  Sioan,  when  she  ran  into  the  bed  of  shingle  and  sea- 
weed, fixed  herself  without  much  of  a  list ;  and  the  deck 
stools  were  quite  serviceable.  Shell  Glanny  had  gone  below 
to  bank  up  his  fires  and  let  off  some  of  the  steam ;  and  Tim 
had  accompanied  him.  These  two,  then,  were  practically 
alone  in  this  shining,  silent  world  of  sky  and  sea,  with  the 
slow-sailing  white  clouds  mirrored  in  the  blue  expanse  of 
water,  and  the  slight  hissing  all  around  them  of  the  currents 
swirling  between  the  rocks. 

Mary  Chetwynd's  manner,  as  has  already  been  said,  was, 
in  ordinary  circumstances,  marked  by  a  perfect  ease  and 
self-possession  ;  she  never  seemed  to  have  to  think  twice 
about  what  she  was  going  to  say  ;  she  always  appeared  to* 
be  on  the  most  simple  and  friendly  terms  both  with  herself 
and  with  everybody  around  her.  Now,  however,  it  was 
clear  that  she  was  embarrassed.  She  remained  silent  for  a 
time ;  her  eyes  were  fixed  on  the  deck ;  once  or  twice  she 
opened  and  shut  her  sunshade  aimlessly.  And  when  she 
did  speak  she  jumbled  nearly  all  the  thing  she  had  to  say 
together  in  a  very  incoherent  way. 

"  Mr.  Fitzgerald — I — 1  don't  think  you  and  I  have  been 
quite  fair  to  each  other.  I — I  have  been  reading  those 
papers  in  the  Daily  Mirror — I  did  not  know  you  thought 
about  such  things — and  then  I  am  afraid  you  have  not  been 
quite  happy  here — and  auntie  wants  to  give  you  the  place 
— and  hopes  you  will  stay  here — and  I  want  you  to  go 
away." 

Her  fingers  were  trembling. 

"  It  is  so  difficult  to  make  explanations,"  she  said. 
"  But  I  feel  that  it  was  inconsiderate  of  me  to  ask  you  to 
come  here — " 

What  could  make  her  so  timid  and.  almost  distressed? 
— she  who  ordinarily  did  not  seem  to  know  what  nervous- 
ness meant. 

I  hope  you  won't  think  of  it,"  he  said,  hastily  coming 
to  her  rescue,  and  with  an  embarrassment  about  equal  to 
her  own.  "Yesterday  you  seemed  concerned  about  it  also. 
Please  don't  think  of  it  for  a  moment.  I  assure  you  it  is  a 
very  good  thing  for  people  to  be  alone  sometimes  ;  it  makes 
them  find  out  something  about  themselves.    Surely  it  is  not 


308  SHANDON  BELLS. 

a  trumpery  matter  like  that  that  you  want  to  speak  about 
for  five  hours,  Miss  Chetwynd  ?  I  assure  you  I  have  en- 
joyed the  time  tremendously  since  I  was  here — I  don't 
expect  ever  to  have  such  a  holiday  again  as  long  as  I  live. 
But  who  told  you  I  wrote  those  papers  in  the  Mirror?  " 

"  Who  told  me  ?  "  she  said,  with  her  face  brightening, 
for  now  the  awkwardness  of  beginning  was  over,  and  here 
was  a  solid,  practical  subject  that  involved  no  danger. 
"  They  did.  Every  line — though  I  don't  think  you  ever 
wrote  quite  in  that  way  before.  Auntie  herself  would 
have  led  me  to  suspect,  for  she  thought  t})ey  were  like  what 
our  poor  Frank  might  have  written,  just  as  she  thouglit 
about  the  other  papers  in  the  Household  Magazine.  So 
there  must  be  some  similarity ;  but  yet  I  see  a  great  differ- 
ence  " 

Here  she  flushed  slightly,  and  immediately  said  : — 

"  I  wonder,  now,  if  you  know  here  what  an  impression 
they  have  made  on  the  public  ?  1  suppose  not.  Do  you 
know  that  every  one  is  talking  about  them,  as  something 
quite  i\QW  in  literature.  And  the  weekly  papers  have  been 
saying  the  nicest  things  about  them,  especially  the  Liberal 
Heview. 

"  No,  not  the  Liberal  Review  f  "    said  he  quickly. 

"  Oh  yes,  indeed.  Again  and  again.  Wlien  you  go 
Dack  to  London  you  will  find  yourself  quite  famous." 

That  topic  ought  not  to  have  been  distasteful  to  a  young 
author,  but  he  merely  said  : — 

"I  have  had  some  letters  about  them.  And  invitations 
to  contribute  elsewhere.  One  publisher,  indeed,  wants  to 
reprint  them.  If  that  were  done,  and  if  the  public  care  to 
read  them  in  that  form,  I  might  be  able,  after  all,  to  gain 
some  little  footing  in  literature — enough  for  a  beginner.  I 
had  begun  to  despair.  I  was  at  it  a  long  time,  and  of  course 
one  does  not  like  to  confess  one's  self  a  failure  ;  and  I  should 
like  to  have  a  definite  way  of  earning  a  living,  besides.  But 
don't  bother  about  my  affairs.  Miss  Chetwynd." 

*'  I  must,"  she  said,  brightly,  for  she  was  glad  the  ice 
was  broken.  "  I  have  been  intrusted  by  auntie  with  the 
duty  of  telling  you  that  she  is  more  bent  than  ever  on  ask- 
ing you  to  take  over  Boat  of  Garry " 

"  I  remember.  It  is  very  kind  of  her,  I  am  sure,"  he 
said :  "  but  in  my  circumstances  it  would  be  worse  than  use- 
less." 

"  Yes ;  so  she  understands,"  said  his  companion,  calmly. 


"iHANDON  BELLS,  809 

**  You  mean  that  you  could  not  afford  to  keep  up  the  place. 
Every  one  must  see  that.  But  what  auntie  says  is  that 
Avhen  she  presents  a  picture  to  any  one  she  presents  it 
framed  ;  and  of  course  she  would  see  that  you  had  enough  to 
keep  up  Boat  of  Garry  properly.  More  than  that — and  this  is 
where  my  interest  comes  in — you  would  have  quite  enough 
to  have  rooms  in  London  besides,  and  you  might  spend  as 
m  uch  of  the  year  there  as  you  wished  ;  in  fact,  you  would 
have  your  entire  time  at  your  disposal." 

He  was  regarding  her  with  astonishment,  almost  with 
incredulity. 

"  I  do  believe,"  she  said,  with  a  slight,  humorous  smile, 
"  tbat  you  think  I  am  going  to  ask  you  for  a  subscription  to 
my  charities." 

•'  JSTo,"  said  he  ;  "  I  was  wondering  why  your  aunt  should 
be  so  kind  to  me.     This  is  overwhelming " 

"  Oh,  do  you  wish  to  know  why  poor  old  auntie  is  kind? 
You  had  better  leave  that  to  the  philosophers.  It  is  a  way 
she  has.  And  in  this  instance  I  don't  oppose  her.  I  hope 
auntie  will  live  many  years  yet :  and  I  don't  see  the  fun  of 
keeping  up  Boat  of  Garry  for  the  benefit  of  Mr.  McGee. 
Now,  Mr.  Fitzgerald,  as  auntie  doesn't  talk  any  longer  of 
asking  you  to  give  up  your  name  as  a  condition,  I  have  no 
doubt  you  will  become  the  owner  of  Boat  of  Garry,  and  you 
will  be  your  own  master,  and  have  all  your  time  at  your 
disposal.  Very  likely  auntie  may  expect  you  to  spend 
most  of  the  year  here.  I  hope  you  will  not.  You  will  be 
in  a  position  to  be  of  very  great  use  in  the  world.  Of  what 
use  would  you  be  here  ?  It  would  be  all  very  well  to  use 
Boat  of  Garry  as  a  place  of  recuperation,  after  work  done ; 
but  it  would  be  selfish — at  least  so  it  seems  to  me — if  you 
were  merely  to  settle  down  here  to  enjoy  yourself,  even  in 
the  most  innocent  way,  Avith  those  delightful  rambles  that 
you  describe.  Mr.  Fitzgerald,"  she  said,  after  a  second,  "  I 
don't  think  you  have  been  fair  to  me.  You  have  met  me 
among  some  scientific  people,  and  you  think  I  care  for 
nothing  but  science.  You  think  I  am  heartless.  Well,  let 
that  be  as  it  may  ;  it  is  of  no  consequence ;  but  at  all  events 
I  think  this  :  that  those  who  are  well  off,  and  in  a  position 
Avhere  they  enjoy  the  comforts  of  life  in  peace  and  security, 
should  remember  how  these  things  were  made  possible  to 
them — simply  through  the  best  people,  century  after  cen- 
tury, doing  their  best — and  they  ought  to  have  some  grati- 
tude, and  be  willing  to  lend  a  hand  at  the  same  work,  for 


810  SHANDON  BELLS, 

the  benefit  of  those  who  are  in  less  favored  circumstances. 
I  don't  like  to  talk  about  what  some  of  us  are  trying  to  do 
among  the  poor  in  the  east  end  of  London  ;  for  it  isn't 
very  picturesque,  and  it  does  not  appeal  much  to  sentiment ; 
and  then  it  is  so  easy  to  impute  motives.  Well,  I  don't 
care  much  wliat  the  motive  is,  if  the  result  is  the  same. 
Very  likely  doing  charitable  actions  is  only  another  form 
of  self-gratification  ;  and  I  suppose  I  consider  myself  a  supe- 
rior person ;  but  let  us  take  the  case  of  a  sick  woman  who 
can't  stir  from  her  bed  to  look  after  the  poor  room  and 
kitchen,  and  she  is  afraid  her  husband,  when  he  comes  home 
at  seven,  will  be  discontented,  and  go  away  to  the  public- 
house,  and  suppose  you  take  one  of  your  district  nurses  to 
the  place,  and  say  to  her,  '  Well,  never  mind  about  the 
physic  ;  she  can  help  herself  to  that  if  the  bottle  is  marked; 
but  you  look  round  in  the  evening,  between  six  and  seven, 
and  give  the  place  a  bit  of  smartening  up,  and  have  hot  water 
for  the  husband's  tea  against  his  coming  home  and  stir  the 
fire,  and  liave  one  or  two  illustrated  papers  about' — well, 
perhaps,  to  see  the  look  of  gratitude  on  the  sick  woman's 
face  is  only  to  flatter  your  self-love :  I  don't  say  it  is  not ; 
but  ask  the  poor  woman  what  is  her  opinion — whether  she 
would  have  that  done  for  her,  or  have  the  house  left  to  its 
discomfort  and  squalor,  and  her  husband  turn  out  and  leave 
her  alone." 

"  I  don't  think,"  said  he,  slowly,  "  that  I  should  be 
quick  to  impute  motives,  if  you  would  tell  me  what  it  is 
you  are  doing  there." 

"Oh,  but  when  I  find  a  sympathetic  listener,"  she  said, 
with  a  laugh,  "  I  am  dreadful.  I  know  so  many  stories 
that  are  interesting  to  me  because  I  know  the  people  :  but 
they  can  not  be  so  interesting  to  others " 

"You  see.  Miss  Chetwynd,"  he  continued,  "short  of  a 
miraculous  rising  of  the  tide,  we  are  stuck  fast  here  for 
four  hours  and  a  half " 

"  And  you  would  have  four  hours  and  a  half  description 
of  our  lectures  and  entertainments,  our  Sunday  services, 
and  district  nurses,  and  open-air  spaces,  and  our  window 
flower  boxes,  and  all  that?  Oh  no.  Some  other  day,  per 
haps.  At  this  moment,  Mr.  Fitzgerald,  it  has  occurred  to 
me  that  you  might  ask  whether  there  is  anything  that 
might  serve  for  lunch  on  board  this  shipwrecked  boat." 

"  I  believe  there  is  a  tin  of  biscuits,"  said  he. 

«  That  will  do  excellently." 


SHANDON  BELLS.  311 

«  Shall  I  bring  them  now  ?  " 

"  If  you  please." 

"  Accordingly  he  went  down  into  the  little  cabin,  and 
handed  up,  not  only  the  biscuits,  but  also  two  bottles  of 
soda-water  and  two  clean  tumblers  ;  so  that  they  had  a 
most  wholesome,  if  fiomewhat  simple,  banquet  on  deck  on 
this  fair  warm  summer  day.  And  insensibly  she  began  to 
tell  him  something  of  her  own  troubles ;  for  it  appeared 
that  those  charitable  people  were  not  all  of  one  mind ;  and, 
besides  certain  schemes  and  organizations  of  her  own  plan- 
ning, it  turned  out  that  she  belonged  to  one  or  two  societies 
of  kindred  intent. 

"And  I  do  so  want  somebody  to  back  me  up,"  she 
said.  "  You  must  know  I  am  a  dreadful  heretic  and  in- 
novator, Mr.  Fitzgerald — I  am  the  champion  of  beer." 

"  Oh,  indeed,"  said  he. 

"  You  know,  it  is  easy  enough  to  get  on  with  the  b  oys' 
entertainments ;  all  they  want  as  a  bribe  is  a  biscuit  or 
two,  with  some  apples,  or  nuts  if  it  is  not  apple  time. 
And  then  we  are  doing  good  service  to  the  country  by 
reading  them  patriotic  poetry  or  stories  of  bravery  at  sea, 
and  showing  them  a  bit  of  practical  science  by  means  of  a 
magic  lantern,  or  even  hinting  that  a  boy  should  be  too 
proud  to  steal,  and  not  refrain  simply  from  fear  of  the  po- 
lice station.  But  the  men  ;  what  I  say  is,  how  can  you  expect 
the  Stepney  workmen,  or  the  coster-monger  from  Shadwell, 
or  the  tired  laborer  from  the  docks,  to  come  and  sit  out  a 
lecture  on  ventilation  or  some  such  thing,  with  nothing  to 
make  him  comfortable  but  a  cup  of  tea,  which  gets  cold 
directly,  and  with  his  pipe  in  his  pocket?  I  say  it  is  ask- 
ing too  much.  I  say  it  is  not  common-sense.  What  harm 
is  there  in  letting  each  man  have  his  pint  of  light  ale — I 
am  afraid  they  would  not  take  to  the  Bavarian  beer,  though 
that  would  be  the  safest — and  his  pipe?  I  did  not  like  it 
at  first ;  but  now  I  can  stand  a  hall  full  of  men  smoking 
pipes.     One  must  not  be  too  particular.     I  was  amused  not 

long  ago  at  the  bravery  of  Lady ,  who  came  down  to 

see  how  we  were  getting  along.  She  came  to  a  boys'  enter- 
tainment, in  a  very  low  neighborhood — to  tell  you  the  truth, 
Mr.  Fitzgerald,  I  suspect  about  one  third  of  them  were 
thieves ;  but  all  the  same  she  stood  at  the  door  as  they 
went  out,  and  shook  hands  with  each  of  them,  and  com- 
plimented them  on  their  good  behavior.  And  the  next 
night  I  had  got  them  together  I  thought  I  would  tell  them 


312  SHANDON  BELLS. 

that  Lady was  a  great  friend  of  the  Queen  s  ;  and  one 

small  chap  said,  immediately,  '  Please,  Miss,  did  the  lady 
ever  shake  hands  with  the  Queen  ?  "  You  can  see  what 
the  poor  little  fellow  meant — that  he  had  shaken  hands 
with  some  one  who  had  shaken  hands  with  the  Queen. 
But  there  again,  that  shows  the  imprudence  of  allowing 
strangers  to  come  among  us  out  of  mere  curiosity,  for  they 

would  call  that  snobbishness " 

"  What  does  it  matter  what  they  call  it  ?  "   said  Fitz- 
gerald, with  some  warmth. 

"I  thought  it  was  very  pretty  of  Lady to  shake  hands 

with  each  of  the  boys ;  and  I  take  no  shame  to  myself  that  I 
told  them  she  was  a  friend  of  the  Queen's.  It  is  very  easy 
to  criticise  when  you  don't  have  to  face  the  actual  circum- 
stances. I  know  it  took  me  some  time  before  I  could  bear 
the  tobacco  smoke.  I  tried  a  mean  way  of  getting  out  of  it 
by  presenting  them  with  good  tobacco ;  but  that  was  no  use ; 
they  would  not  smoke  mine:  I  suppose  it  was  too  delicate. 
Oh,  did  you  hear  what  Mr.  Scobell  did  just  before  we  left 
London  ?»' 

"  No,  I  think  not." 

"  He  sent  me  another  three  hundred  filters  ! — just  think 
of  it !  So  there  will  have  to  be  another  big  lecture  and  a 
distribution  as  soon  as  we  get  back." 

Apparently  this  young  lady  with  the  clear  eyes  and  the 
bright  smile  had  found  a  sufficiently  sympathetic  listener, 
for  the  time  passed  quite  unobserved  as  she  described  all 
this  work  that  was  going  on.  They  did  not  even  notice  that 
the  tide  was  now  flowing  in  ;  that  one  or  two  shallow  banks, 
where  the  heavy  sea-tangle  had  lain  exposed  in  the  sun, 
were  now  covered  by  the  sea  again ;  and  that  the  Ghoul 
was  watchful  and  anxious. 

All  at  once  the  Black  Swan  was  found  to  be  moving ;  but 
it  was  only  a  list  from  one  side  to  the  other  ;  that  was  so 
sharp,  however,  that  it  very  nearly  threw  everybody  into 
the  water.  And  then  as  the  tide  rose  she  gradually  righted  ; 
Sheil  Glanny.  finding  she  was  deep  enough  astern,  ventured 
upon  backing  her  off ;  there  was  just  enough  room  to  turn  ; 
and  the  next  minute  the  Black  Sioan  was  sailing  right  up  the 
creek  again,  while  a  shrill  scream  or  two  from  tlie  steam-whis- 
tle would  tell  the  Boat  of  Garry  people  of  her  return.  And 
then  the  throbbing  and  puffing  and  churning  came  to  a  sud- 
den end ;  in  renewed  quiet  the  little  yacht  cut  its  way  through 
the  glassy  water  ;  with  the  boat-hook  Tim  dexterously  mad© 


SHANDON  BELLS.  313 

a  grab  at  the  moorings ;  and  presently  the  two  voyagers 
where  on  their  way  to  the  shore. 

*'  There,  now,  Mr.  Fitzgerald,"  she  said,  as  they  walked 
along  the  road  together  to  the  house.  "  have  I  been  the  whole 
day  talking  to  you  about  heaps  of  things  that  you  can  not 
take  any  interest  in,  and  all  that  I  meant  to  say  to  you  I  have 
forgotten.  Except  this — please  don't  stay  at  Boat  of  Garry 
when  it  becomes  yours — at  least,  not  always.  I  am  vei-y, 
very  sorry  I  asked  you  to  come  here :  I  would  not  have 
done  so  if  I  had  thought  you  were  going  to  write  about  it 
like  that.     I  am  very,  very  sorry —  " 

She  was  speaking  in  rather  a  low  voice,  with  her  eyes 
downcast. 

"But  why?"  said  he,  good-naturedly.  "Any  place  is 
solitary  when  one  is  alone  ;  and  this  place  is  most  beautiful 
— that  is  all  the  difference.  But  do  you  really  think,"  he 
added,  more  thoughtfully,  "  that  these  papers  have  made  an 
impression  on  the  public  ?  " 

"Most  certainly,"  said  he,  with  her  face  brightening. 
"Who  could  doubt  it?  Or  is  there  any  wonder, that  people 
should  be  grateful  for  having  it  pointed  out  that  the  common 
things  of  the  world  are  far  more  beautiful  than  they  had 
fancied?  Does  it  not  make  life  a  little  richer?" 

"  But  I  had  nothing  to  do  with  that,"  said  he,  absently  ; 
"I  was  only  repeating  John  Ross — my  artist  friend,  you  re- 
member. Miss  Chetwynd  :  I  was  only  pointing  out  what  he 
had  shown  me.  No  ;  why  I  asked  was  with  the  fancy  that 
perhaps  now  I  could  earn  something  in  literature.  Pei-- 
haps  there  might  be  a  prospect  forme  now  ;  mdeed,  I  think 
so  myself,  from  one  or  two  offers  that  I  have  received. 
Pray  forgive  me.  Miss  Chetwynd."  he  added,  suddenly 
recollecting  himself,  "  for  talking  about  my  affairs  to  you  ; 
but  indeed  I  might  say  that  you  yourself  are  concerned — " 

"  I  ?  "  she  said,  with  something  like  a  start. 

"  In  a  measure,"  he  continued.  "  I  should  like  to  go  back 
to  London  soon,  I  think — " 

"Oh  I  am  glad  of  that !"  she  exclaimed,  with  very  ob- 
vious  eagerness. 

*'  And  if  matters  go  well,"  he  said — "  you  know  you 
hinted  about  a  contribution  to  all  these  varied  charities  of 
yours  I  say,  if  matters  go  well,  you  will  perhaps  allow  me  to 
give  you  a  contribution." 

She  laughed  lightly.  She  did  not  think  it  was  probable 
he  was  so  soon  to  become  rich. 


314  SHANDON-  BELLS, 

"What  will  your  contribution  be?"  she  said,  idly,  as  he 

opened  tlie  big  iron  gate  for  her. 

*'  Well,"  said  he,  *'  if  your  aunt  would  consent " 

"  My  aunt !     What  has  she  to  do  with  it  ?  " 

"  Oh,  a  great  deal,"  he  continued,  as  they  walked  along 

the  gravel-path  up  to  the  house.     "  I  was  thinking,  if  she  had 

no  objection,  ray  contribution  ought  to  be " 

"Not  two   hundred  pounds   a   year?"   she  suggested, 

rather  jokingly. 

"  No,"  he  answered,  looking  round  at  the  beautiful  place. 

"  I  was  thinking  that  my  contribution   ought  to  be  — Boat 

of  Garry." 


CHAPTER  XXIX. 

PLANS   AND   DBEAMS. 


"  Now,  auntie  dear,"  said  Mary  Chetwynd,  as  she  put 
her  hat  on  the  hall  table,  and  smoothed  her  hair,  and  went 
into  the  room,  "  I  know  you  are  going  to  scold  me." 

"  Indeed  I  am,"  said  the  old  lady,  with  some  astonish- 
ment and  indignation.  "  Where  have  you  been  ?  To 
Limerick?  To  Queenstown?  Scold  you,  indeed! — no 
wonder ! " 

"Oh,  but  I  don't  mean  about  that,"  her  niece  said. 
"  That  was  unavoidable.  We  have  been  close  by  all  the 
time — stuck  fast.  I  dare  say  you  were  afraid  of  the  bull, 
and  came  straight  home ;  but  if  you  had  only  climbed  up 
the  hill  high  enough,  you  might  have  had  the  pleasure  of 
contemplating  us  for  the  last  five  hours.  Only  another  little 
adventure:  one   gets   used   to  them  on  board   the   JBlach 

"  How  provoking,  now ! "  Mrs.  Chetwynd  exclaimed. 
"  The  very  first  time  that  Mr.  Fitzgerald  goes  to  try  the 
yacht !  Of  course  he  will  think  she  is  always  getting  into 
trouble " 

"  Isn't  she,  auntie  dear  ?  " 

"  What  was  Shell  Glanny  about  ?  "  said  the  old  lady, 
angrily. 

"  Now,  auntie,  you  need  not  quarrel  with  Shiel  Glanny, 


SHANDON  BELLS.  3 1  r5 

Tlie  real  cause  of  the  accident  was  yourself.  You  kept 
pretending  you  wished  to  go,  just  to  assure  Mr.  Fitzgerald 
that  nothing  could  be  more  delightful  than  a  trip  in  the 
Coalscuttle;  and  so  we  were  late  in  starting,  and  at  the 
Narrows  the  current  came  after  Shiel  Glanny  as  if  it  wanted 
to  swallow  him  ;  and  then  we  found  ourselves  quietly  shelved. 
Now,  auntie,  tell  me,  as  I  have  been  talking  to  Mr.  Fitz- 
gerald for  these  five  mortal  hours,  haven't  I  done  my  best 
to  make  up  for  the  silence  he  must  have  endured  here  ? 
And  what  will  he  think  about  women's  tongues  after 
that?" 

"  I  have  not  the  least  doubt,"  said  the  old  lady,  peevishly, 
"  that  you  Avere  all  the  time  trying  to  make  him  discon- 
tented with  Boat  of  Garry." 

"  No,  not  quite  so  bad  as  that,"  said  the  young  lady. 
She  was  seated  with  her  back  to  the  window,  and  the  after- 
noon sun  touched  the  outline  of  the  prettily  shaped  head, 
leaving  the  face  in  shadow.  "  But  still  bad  enough  to  merit 
a  scolding.  I  am  quite  prepared  for  it.  For  indeed,  auntie, 
Mr.  Fitzgerald  seemed  quite  surprised  when  I  told  him  what 
a  stir  these  writings  of  his  had  made ;  and  naturally  he 
wishes  to  get  back  to  London,  which  is  the  proper  place  for 
a  literary  man  ;  and  no  doubt  he  is  ambitious " 

"  Yes,  and  jio  doubt,"  said  her  aunt,  "  you  encouraged 
him  in  thinking  of  leaving  Boat  of  Garry,  the  very  place 
where  he  found  just  such  things  as  he  could  write  about, 
and  you  urged  him  to  go  to  London,  where  he  will  have  no 
specialty  at  all." 

"  Auntie,"  said  Mary  Chetwynd,  "  a  man  who  can  write 
like  that,  can  write  about  anything ;  it  is  not  a  question  of 
place  or  opportunity.  Why,  you  know,"  she  continued, 
"  that  all  that  description  of  the  sea,  or  of  the  night-time,  or 
salmon-fishing,  or  any  occupation  of  the  moment,  is  only  an 
excuse.  Surely  you  can  feel  that  there  is  something  that  is 
behind  all  that — something  that  gets  hold  of  people  though 
they  can  scarcely  tell  how.  I  will  undertake  to  say  he  could 
make  a  description  of  daybreak  in  Whitechapel  as  mysteri- 
ous and  wonderful  and  interesting  as  a  description  of  day- 
break at  Killarney.  Do  you  think  he  is  going  to  lose  his 
eyes  because  he  goes  to  London  ?  "  • 

Miss  Chetwynd  glanced  outside  to  make  sure  there  was 
no  one  there. 

"  What  the  secret  of  it  is  I  don't  know,"  she  said,  "  only 
he  seems  to  give  you  the  sensation  that  all  the  inanimate 


316  SHANDON  BELLS. 

things  in  the  world  are  alive,  and  watching  you,  ana  pa- 
tiently sympathetic.  Don't  you  remember^  auntie,  Mrs. 
Sims's  solemn  vow  that  never  again  would  she  put  on  her 
table  flowers  that  had  been  forced  white  in  cellars?  I  told 
that  to  Mr.  Fitzgerald  to-day,  and  he  laughed  and  said  it 
was  nonsense;  but  I  thought  it  was  a  very  pretty  compli- 
ment. I  want  to  show  him  what  we  are  doing  in  the  East 
End ;  I  think  he  would  understand  quick  enough,  and  not 
misjudge  us.  Mind,  I  will  confess  this;  for  a  long  time  1 
thought  he  was  merely  a  sentimental  sort  of  person, 
like " 

*'  Like  me :  go  on,''  said  the  old  lady,  with  a  gracious 
smile. 

"  No,  not  like  you  at  all,  but  like  the  people  who  are 
delighted  to  read  pathetic  stories  of  the  poor,  and  who  ad- 
mire kindness  in  the  abstract,  but  who  wouldn't  forfeit  their 
own  dinner  to  keep  a  whole  household  from  starvation,  and 
who  would  shudder  with  horror  if  they  were  asked  to  put 
a  sponge  to  a  child's  dirty  face.  Well,  we  all  make  mis- 
takes, I  suppose.  Those  papers  showed  me  I  was  mistaken 
about  him,  anyway.  There  is  something  deeper  than  senti- 
ment in  his  nature.  And — and — "  continued  the  young 
lady,  with  a  certain  embarrassment,  for  she  seemed  to  be- 
come conscious  that  she  had  been  talking  very  frankly 
"  and  I  am  glad  he  is  going  away  from  here — if  only  for  a 
time ;  for  I  was  uneasy  about  my  share  in  his  coming ;  and 
if  he  were  once  away,  don't  you  see,  dear  auntie,  he  could 
decide  about  coming  back  or  not  just  as  he  pleased,  and 
that  would  be  his  own  doing.  Now  I  am  ready  to  be 
scolded." 

"  For  what,  then  ?  " 

''  Oh,  perhaps  I  have  not  come  to  the  worst,"  said  the 
penitent.  "  You  know  you  said  I  might  tell  him  of  your 
kind  intentions,  auntie ;  and  he  was  very  grateful — no  won- 
der ;  and  even  astonished,  for  he  asked  why  you  should  be 
so  kind,  whereupon  I  referred  him  to  the  philosophei-s  who 
can  explain  why  the  sky  is  blue.  But  did  I  tell  you  how 
interested  he  seemed  when  I  told  him  all  that  is  going  on 
down  there  in  the  East  End?  Did  I?  Very  well;  when 
he  began  *o  talk  about  his  literary  prospects,  and  of  the 
chance  of  his  gaining  an  independent  position  that  way, 
what  do  you  think  he  proposed? — to  give  me  a  contri- 
bution ! " 


SHANDON  BELLS.  317 

**  After  five  hours' talking,  what  less  could  he  do?  I 
think  you  deserved  it." 

"  But  his  contribution,  auntie  dear — always  with  your 
consent,  mind — he  said  he  should  like  to  be  Boat  o£ 
Garry." 

"I  don't  understand  you." 

"He  meant  that — that,  if  you  didn't  mind,  auntie — 
he  would  give  us  Boat  of  Garry,  or  what  it  might  fetch, 
rather." 

"  He  shall  not ;  he  shall  not,"  said  the  old  lady,  with 
decision.  "You  may  play  ducks  and  drakes  with  your  own 
money,  Mary ;  but  no  one  shall  go  and  throw  away 
my  poor  Frank's  place  on  Shadwell  or  Stepney.  I  won't 
hear  of  it." 

"  But  if  you  say  not,  then  not  it  must  be,"  remarked  the 
young  lady,  good-naturedly.  "  Of  course  he  could  not  do 
such  a  thing  without  your  consent." 

"  I  sliall  not  allow  it.  Why,  the  idea !  Is  that  all  ho 
cares  for  the  place  ?  " 

But  here  Miss  Chetwynd  grew  alarmed.  She  knew  not 
what  mischief  she  might  not  have  done. 

"Auntie,  dear,"  she  said,  with  some  eagerness,  "there  is 
no  use  to  say  another  word  about  it.  It  was  only  a  sugges- 
tion. I  think  he  deserves  credit  for  entertaining  such  a 
generous  fancy,  if  only  for  a  moment.  Would  you  find 
many  young  men — fond  of  riding  and  shooting  and  all  that 
— willing  to  part  with  such  a  place?  And  the  idea  that  he 
does  not  appreciate  it,  or  recognize  its  beauties  !  But  I  am 
sure,  auntie  dear,  you  would  not  be  the  one  to  stand  in  the 
way  of  a  young  man  making  a  great  reputation  for  him- 
self? And  that  is  why  I  think  he  ought  to  go  away — at 
least  for  a  time — and  establish  himself  in  London.  Give 
him  Boat  of  Garry,  by  all  means,  auntie,  and  the  frame  of 
the  picture  too  ;  but  you  would  not  make  the  conditions  too 
rigorous  ;  you  could  not  expect  him  to  remain  here  always ; 
no  doubt  he  would  be  glad  enough  to  come  here  from  timo 
to  time — the  winter  shooting  he  says  is  excellent." 

"  Mary  Chetwynd,"  said  her  aunt,  with  a  severity  that 
was  in  great  part  assumed,  "  you  are  trying  to  throw  me 
off  the  scent.  I  can  see  what  you  are  after.  You  wish  me 
to  put  Mr.  Fitzgerald  in  the  position  of  having  independent 
means,  with  no  occupation — " 

"I?  Was  it  you  or  I  who  proposed  that!"  said  the 
young  lady,  with  some  warmth. 


818  SHANDON  BELLS, 

**  Wait  a  moment :  I  see  your  scheme.  You  don  t  im- 
pose upon  me,  Miss.  Here  you  have  a  young  man  who  isf 
quick,  intelligent,  of  a  generous  disposition  ;  and  of  course 
when  he  lias  a  fair  allowance  of  money,  and  absolutely 
nothing  to  do,  isn't  he  the  very  person — even  supposing 
that  he  is  not  allowed  to  sell  Boat  of  Garry — to  be  carried 
off  and  added  to  your  Whitechapel  gang?  Oh,  I  sec  the 
whole  thing  clearly  enough,  though  my  eyes  are  not  as  good 
as  they  once  were.  Here  you  have  a  clever  young  man  for 
your  lectures,  and  Whitechapel  swallows  him  up;  no  one 
ever  sees  him  again  ;  literature  loses  him,  and  Boat  of  Garry 
is  left  empty  and  useless.  So  that  is  why  we  go  and  run  a 
valuable  steam-yacht  on  to  a  rock ;  and  that  is  why  we  talk 
for  five  hours ;  and  no  doubt  Whitechapel  looks  rather  a 
pretty  sort  of  place — in  a  distant  way — when  you  have  a 
smooth  blue  sea  and  picturesque  mountains  round  you?" 

The  young  lady  flushed  slightly ;  but  she  retained  her 
accustomed  good  humor. 

"  You  are  quite  mistaken,  auntie,"  said  she ;  but  now 
she  spoke  in  a  lower  tone,  for  Fitzgerald  was  standing  on 
the  lawn  outside,  putting  the  pieces  of  his  rod  together. 
"  Mr.  Fitzgerald  has  his  own  plans.  He  is  not  likely  to  be 
led  by  either  you  or  me.  If  either  it  would  be  you,  natur- 
ally ;  for  he  is  greatly  indebted  to  you ;  whereas  he  and  I 
are  practically  strangers.  And  I  know  he  is  anxious  to 
acquire  a  position  in  literature  :  and  I  should  not  wonder  if, 
when  this  book  of  his  comes  to  be  published,  it  were  to 
make  him  quite  famous.  No  auntie,"  she  continued,  in  a 
lighter  way,  for  Fitzgerald  had  started  off,  "  I  know  what 
will  happen.  Your  kindness  will  enable  Mr.  Fitzgerald  to 
write  just  in  the  way  that  suits  his  own  bent ;  he  will  be 
under  no  anxiety  except  to  do  his  best  work  ;  and  of  course 
he  will  be  grateful  to  you;  and  you  will  be  able  to  produce 
him  at  your  dinner  table  as  your  own  author.  Think  of 
that !  You  will  have  him  all  to  yourself ;  you  alone  will 
know  what  he  is  working  at ;  a  real,  live,  distinguished 
author  constantly  on  the  premises.  For  no  doubt  you  will 
ask  him  to  come  and  live  in  Hyde  Park  Gardens  ;  and  then 
you  can  get  a  study  for  him  by  turning  me  and  my  nine 
inch  telescope  out  of  doors.  Then  his  lordship,  when  ho 
pleases,  will  come  over  here  and  shoot  wild-duck ;  and  per 
haps,  auntie  dear,  you  won't  mind  sending  me  a  brace  now 
and  again  to  my  lodgings  in  the  Mile-end  Road,  where  1 


SHANDON  BELLS.  819 

Bhall  most  likely  be  starving,  after  having  sold  my  telescope 
and  my  last  pair  of  boots." 

"  Go  away  and  tell  thera  to  bring  tea,"  said  her  aunt, 
sharply;  and  so  this  discussion  came  to  an  end. 

Meanwhile  the  object  of  all  this  diverse  speculation  was 
making  his  way  down  through  the  meadows  to  the  stream, 
his  long  rod  swaying  over  his  shoulder.  There  was  a  con- 
tented look  on  his  face  on  this  warm  and  pleasant  afternoon. 
The  neighborhood  of  Boat  of  Garry  seemed  much  more 
cheerful  since  the  arrival  of  these  visitors.  And  yet  he  was 
not  paying  much  attention  to  the  things  around  hira ; 
rather  he  was  amusing  himself  by  drawing  an  imaginary 
picture  of  what  his  life  would  have  been  had  he  been  con- 
tent to  accept  Mrs.  Chetwynd's  munificent  offer  in  its  sim- 
plicity. He  was  thinking  of  himself  as  owner  of  Boat  of 
Garry;  living  a  quiet,  solitary,  resigned  life;  taking  what 
care  of  the  place  he  could,  no  matter  into  whose  hands  it 
was  destined  ultimately  to  fall ;  perhaps,  through  industrious 
stewardship,  being  able  to  save  something  to  send  to  Miss 
Chetwynd's  charities  ;  and  then  from  time  to  time,  in  this 
peaceful  and  uneventful  existence,  jotting  down  the  impres- 
sions of  these  silent  hours,  and  so  maintaining  a  sort  of 
relationship  with  the  unknown  friends  over  there  in  Eng- 
land whom  he  should  never  see.  He  looked  ahead,  and 
beheld  himself  as  another  person.  A  sensation  of  being 
middle-aged  came  over  him.  It  was  in  that  character,  in- 
deed, that  he  had  written  the  "  Occupations  of  a  Recluse." 
There  was  a  tone  in  them  as  of  the  thinking  of  one  for 
whom  the  eager  interests  of  life  were  over.  He  had  arrived 
at  the  stage  of  contemplation ;  the  phenomena  of  the  earth 
around  him  were  not  of  much  importance,  except  i  so  far 
as  they  suggested  strange  fancies,  or  became  the  secret 
friends  and  confidants  of  his  solitary  walks  by  sea  and 
shore. 

He  was  amusing  himself  with  this  fancy  of  what  his 
life  might  be.  There  was  the  possibility  offered  him.  There 
was  no  need  for  hira  to  hand  over  Boat  of  Garry  to  Miss 
Chetwynd's  charities ;  more  than  that  it  was  extremely 
doubtful  whether  Mrs.  Chetwynd  would  allow  hmi.  Indeed, 
so  busy  was  he  with  this  dream  of  the  future  that  when  he 
sat  down  on  a  low  boundary  wall,  and  placed  his  rod 
beside  him  against  the  stones,  and  took  out  his  fly-book, 
he  kept  mechanically  turning  over  the  leaves  and   straight- 


820  SHANDON  BELLS, 

ening  here  and  tliore  a  bit  of  feather  or  fur,  and  did  not 
hear  the  footsteps  behind  him. 

It  was  the  boy  that  helped  Murtougli  in  the  stables; 
and  he  bronght  two  letters.  He  glanced  at  the  basket ; 
but  did  not  venture  to  ask  his  honor  whether  he  had  caught 
anything ;  then  he  reluctantly  left. 

These  two  letters  made  Fitzgerald's  heart  beat,  and 
caused  his  imagination  to  be  fired  with  far  other  dreams 
than  that  of  spending  an  idle  contemplative  life  out  of  the 
world.  The  first  was  from  the  publisher  who  had  already 
proposed  to  issue  the  *'  Occupations  "  in  a  volume  ;  and 
who  now  put  his  offer  in  definite  terms  ;  a  considerable  sum 
— a  sum  that  Fitzgerald  had  not  dreamed  of — to  be  paid 
down,  with  a  royalty  on  each  copy  after  a  certain  number 
had  been  sold.  If  Mr.  Fitzgerald  agreed,  would  he  pro- 
ceed with  the  revison  of  the  papers  forthwith?  And  did 
lie  happen  to  know  of  some  capable  artist  who,  in  his 
opinion,  would  be  a  fit  person  to  illustrate  the  book? 

"  I  think  John  Ross  and  I  will  have  a  little  talk  about 
this,"  he  said  to  himself. 

But  it  was  the  second  letter  that  he  read  and  re-read 
with  far  greater  gratification.  That  was  about  money ;  this 
was  a  personal  triumph.     It  ran  as  follows  : 

"  Sloane,  Street,  Wednesday. 
My  Dear  Sik, — You  may  remember  that  I  had  the 
plensure  of  iiieeting  you  one  evening  at  Mr.  Hilton  Clarke's, 
when  Mr.  Scobell,  who  has  obligingly  given  me  your 
address,  was  also  present.  I  had  heard  a  rumor  to  the 
effect  that  the  papers,  *  The  Occupations  of  a  Recluse,'  were 
by  a  Mr.  Fitzgerald  ;  but  I  did  not  identify  the  name  with 
yourself  until  I  accidentally  met  Mr.  Scobell,  who  put  me 
right.  It  has  since  occurred  to  me  that  you  migjit  find 
greater  freedom  as  to  choice  of  subject  in  the  columns  of  a 
weekly  pai)er ;.  although  I  must  confess  that  Noel  a})pears 
to  have  given  you  a  very  wide  discretion.  His  boldness 
has  been  justified;  the  papers  are  well  spoken  of;  they  are 
unusual ;  they  have  the  touch  of  a  new  hand.  Of  course  I 
do  not  say  leave  the  Mirror  and  come  to  the  Liberal 
lievieio  ;  I  do  not  consider  that  fair  journalism  ;  but  many 
of  the  writers  on  the  daily  papers  also  contribute  to  the 
weeklies ;  and  I  merely  say  that  if  you  happen  to  liave  an 
an  occasional  article  you  might  find  yourself,  for  example, 
with  a  subject  which  would  be  somewhat  too  subtle  and 


SHANDON  BELLS.  S2l 

out  of  the  way  for  the  hurry  of  daily  newspaper  reading) 
that  you  chose  to  send  to  us,  I  should  be  glad  to  have  it ; 
and  as  we  have  two  rates  of  payment  for  different  kinds  cf 
matter,  I  should  be  happy  to  put  you  on  the  most-favored- 
nation  scale.  Yours  faithfully, 

"G.    GlFFORD. 

"  To  William  Fitzgerald,  Esq., 

"  Boat  of  Garry,  by  Bantry,  Ireland." 

His  first,  quick,  proud  thought  was  that  he  would  walk 
straight  to  the  house  and  show  this  letter  to  Mary  Chet- 
wynd. 

But  why  to  her?  She  did  not  know  the  story.  There 
was  no  one  now  who  knew  the  story;  and  his  triumph  was 
useless. 

He  regarded  these  letters.  There  could  be  no  doubt 
that  tliey  shadowed  forth  prospects  that  ought  to  have  been 
alluring  enough  to  a  young  man  of  literary  tendencies  and 
aspirations.  Indeed,  as  he  looked  at  them,  and  guessed  at 
all  they  hinted  at,  that  career  seemed  to  him  a  more  noble 
and  useful  one  than  hiding  himself  away  from  the  world  in 
tliis  solitary  place,  and  avoiding  the  cares  and  anxieties  and 
victoi-ies  of  life  altogether.  And  so  he  was  to  become  an 
autlior  at  last — })erha])s  even  one  who  might  win  in  some 
small  measure  the,  affection  of  the  great  many-eyed,  and 
many-hearted,  and  not  ungrateful  public?  And  to  write 
for  the  Liberal  Review — that  seemed  almost  as  great  a  won- 
der :  not  standing,  as  of  old,  at  tlie  foot  of  the  little  stair, 
and  anxiously  awaiiing  the  fate  of  a  timid  essay  about  some 
one  else's  work;  but  allowed  to  mount  into  his  own  small 
])ulpit,  as  it  were,  and  deliver  forth  his  own  utterances,  if 
haply  one  here  or  there  cared  to  listen  to  a  whisper  from 
the  hills  or  a  murmur  from  the  wide  seas  amid  the  jangle 
of  political  life.  It  seemed  a  wonderful  thing.  He  could 
scarcely  rest.  He  wanted  to  be  away  and  begin  at  once. 
The  great  world  was  calling  him  from  these  still  solitudes ; 
the  picture  was  opening  out  before  him ;  to  what  possible 
goal  might  he  not  attain? 

And  then  somehow — as  a  sudden  sob  breaks  the  silence 
of  the  night,  and  the  hushed  and  hidden  grief  reveals  itself 
and  all  the  darkness  is  shuddering  with  the  old  and  cease- 
less pain — just  as  quickly  and  terribly  flashed  across  l»is 
consciousness  the  words  "Too  late!  too  late!  "  The  time 
for  these  brave  dreams  was  over  now.     A  man  docs  not 


322  SHANDON  BELLS. 

strive  but  toward  an  end  ;  does  not  light  witnout  hope  of 
reward  ;  does  not  strike  for  a  great  future  if  it  is  for  liim- 
self  alone.  "  Too  late  !  too  late  !  "  And  he  had  pretty  well 
schooled  himself  by  this  time ;  and  knew  when  it  was  time 
to  give  up  thinking ;  and  was  as  well  aware  as  any  one  of 
the  stupidity  of  idle  regret.  So  he  deliberately  and  calmly 
put  in  his  pocket  the  letters,  and  chose  with  patient  care  the 
flies  he  wanted  ;  and  went  down  among  the  tall  weeds  by 
the  side  of  the  river.  It  was  a  pleasant  afternoon  ;  the 
water  was  in  good  condition  ;  he  must  not  return  to  the 
house  without  a  sea-trout  for  dinner. 

For  a  long  time  he  had  exceeding  bad  luck.  The  stream 
abounded  with  small  river-trout  that  would  keep  playing 
with  the  big  sea-trout  flies,  occasionally  suffering  for  their 
folly  by  finding  themfeelves  twitched  into  the  air  and  then 
floundering  on  the  grass.  This  necessitated  his  fixing  the 
rod  upright,  and  going  and  getting  the  diminutive  beast  off 
the  hook,  while  there  was  every  probability  that  in  flopping 
about  it  had  caught  one  of  the  other  flies  in  the  weeds. 
And  then  again  he  had  to  be  careful  about  restoring  the 
captive  to  its  native  element,  for  the  flash  and  shoot  of  it 
might  alarm  some  more  noble  fish.  But  he  worked  away, 
whij)ping  industriously  and  mechanically,  not  thinking  of 
anytliing  in  particular  except  as  to  how  to  get  the  flies 
lightly  on  the  water,  himself  unseen,  an^  hoAV  to  recover 
them  without  catching  up  on  the  bank. 

At  last  there  was  a  sudden  "flop  *'  that  well  he  knew 
the  sound  of ;  but  he  struck  too  quickly  or  too  sharply. 
Again  and  again  he  dexterously  dropped  the  flies  over  the 
same  bit  of  water,  but  there  was  no  response  :  perhaps  the 
fish  had  been  touched,  and  had  learned  caution.  He  was 
beginning  to  think  that  he  must  return  to  the  house  empty- 
handed,  when,  lower  down,  there  was  another  "  flop,"  in- 
stantly followed  by  a  sharp  whir  of  the  reel ;  then  again  by 
a  deliberate  '*  sulk,"  during  which  time  he  rapidly  got  in 
his  line  again,  keeping  on  all  the  strain  he  dared.  He  was 
now  in  an  excellent  position,  for  the  fish  had  taken  refuge 
in  a  narrow  deep  little  pool  beyond  some  gravelly  shal- 
lows, and  as  it  was  at  a  bend  in  the  river,  he  standing  on 
the  neck  of  land,  could  have  fair  command  of  the  fish 
whichever  way  he  went.  However,  he  now  knew  pretty 
well  how  many  and  how  various  were  the  accidents  possi- 
ble on  this  little  stream,  where  there  was  no  chance  for  that 
fine,  leisurely  playing  of  the  fish  that  can  be  indulged  iu 


SHANDON  BELLS,  828 

on  an  open  loch  with  impunity ;  and  so  he  kept  on  the  ful|  T  y 
strain  of  his  tackle,  ready  for  whatever  might  happen. 

He  had  very  little  trouble,  however.  The  fish  made 
one  long  rush  up  stream,  but  fortunately  kept  almost  in 
mid-channel.  Then  it  leaped  out  of  the  water  twice,  but 
without  doing  damage.  Then  it  sulked  again ;  but  it  was 
evidently  growing  weaker.  Finally,  after  one  or  two  slow, 
quiet  sailings  u})  and  down,  it  allowed  itself  to  be  gently 
guided  into  the  side,  where  a  cautious  and  then  quick 
swoop  of  the  landing  net  speedily  deposited  it  on  the  grass, 
— a  beauty  of  a  sea-trout  of  apparently  about  three  pounds 
weight. 

Well,  he  thought  that  was  quite  enough,  seeing  it  was 
getting  near  dinner-time  ;  and  Mrs.  Chetwynd  could  not 
bear  unpunctuality ;  while  of  course  he  had  to  exchange 
his  jacket  and  knickerbockers  for  a  more  suitable  costume. 
So  he  popped  the  fish  into  the  basket,  and  was  striding 
home  through  the  meadows  that  led  up  to  the  house,  when 
lie  saw  Miss  Chetwynd  coming  to  him  through  the  trees. 
She  had  evidently  been  expecting  him. 

"  Have  you  caught  anything?  "  she  said  pleasantly. 

"  A  fairish  sea-trout,"  he  said,  "  about  three  pounds.  I 
am  afraid  it  won't  be  in  time  for  dinner." 

"  It  won't,"  she  said.  "  It  is  near  dinner-time  now. 
Mr.  Fitzgerald,"  she  added,  "  I  wanted  to  say  a  word  to 
you  before  going  in.  You  hinted  something  about  handing 
over  Boat  of  Garry  to  me,  to  help  these  various  things  of 
mine.  It  was  kind  of  you.  But  please  don't  even  men- 
tion such  a  project  to  auntie.  She  will  not  hear  of  it ; 
when  I  spoke  of  it  she  was  very  nearly  being  angry  in 
earnest ;  and  that  does  not  often  happen.  No  ;  you  must 
take  Boat  of  Garry,  and  keep  to  her  wishes  ;  you  will  find 
them  considerate  and  reasonable  enough. 

"  But  what  kind  of  use  could  I  put  it  to  ?  "  said  he, 
rather  bewildered  at  the  moment. 

They  had  reached  the  corner  of  the  avenue,  and  the 
house  was  visible.     She  regarded  him  for  a  second. 

"  That  is  hardly  for  me  to  say,"  she  said,  slowly.  "  But 
I  think  if  you  were  to  take  Boat  of  Garry,  as  my  aunt 
wishes  to  give  it  to  you,  you  would  be  in  a  position  in 
which  you  could  do  a  great  deal  of  good  to  many,  many 
people." 

lie  could  not  stay  to  ask  her  to  explain,  even  if  she  were 
W^illing  to  explain ;  for  he  had  but  little  time  in  which  to 


32'i  SIIANDON  BELLS. 

get  ready  for  dinner.  During  that  brief  operation,  how- 
ever, some  odd  fancies  occurred  to  him.  If  certain  things 
were  now  no  longer  possible  to  him  in  the  world,  might  not 
others  be  ?  Was  it  so  necessary  to  human  happiness  that 
life  sliould  be  crowned  by  either  love  or  ambition  ?  Look 
at  Mary  Chetwynd,  now.  Her  life  seemed  valuable  enough 
to  her  because  she  could  make  it  valuable  to  othei-s ;  it  was 
a  beautiful  life  in  its  sweet  serenity,  its  cheerfulness,  its 
atmosphere  of  frankness  and  kindness  and  content.  Her 
philosophy  was  perhaps  not  very  profound ;  but  at  least  it 
was  practical :  "  We  enjoy  such  things  as  we  have  through 
the  best  people  having  done  their  best :  let  us  try  and  do  the 
same  ;  and  make  the  lives  of  those  who  have  been  borne 
down  in  the  struggle  a  little  more  tolerable."  It  was  im- 
possible to  imagine  a  happier  human  being  than  she  seemed 
to  be;  fitting  accurately  and  easily  into  her  surroundings  ; 
full  of  cares  that  were  scarcely  anxieties ,  satisfied  with  her 
place  in  the  world ;  a  dispenser  of  light.  It  seemed  strange 
for  this  king's  daughter  to  spend  the  best  part  of  her  life  in 
Whitechapel;  but  perhaps  she  could  not  be  just  quite 
what  she  was  if  she  did  otherwise.  At  all  events  she  had 
found  out  something.  That  perfect  serenity  of  content 
could  not  be  the  fruit  merely  of  nature  and  disposition  ;  it 
must  be  the  outcome  of  nature  and  disposition  finding  fit- 
ting work  and  occupation.  And  if  a  woman's  instinct  had 
found  out  a  way  of  living  which  seemed  to  make  the  world 
around  her  (in  the  eyes  of  all  beholders)  more  sweet  and 
cheerful  and  wholesome,  might  it  not  be  worth  while  in- 
quiring what  that  was  ? 

Now  no  sooner  had  they  sat  down  to  dinner  than  the 
old  lady,  with  a  trifle  of  enforced  gayety  to  hide  a  certain 
nervousness,  began  to  unfold  to  him  her  designs. 

"  Mary  and  I  have  been  having  a  dreadful  quarrel  about 
you,"  she  said. 

"  I  am  sorry  for  that,"  was  his  answer.  "  But  it  does 
not  appear  as  if  much  harm  had  been  done." 

"  You  must  know  that  Mary  and  I  have  been  sketching 
out  a  career  for  you — only  with  a  difference — and  drawing 
out  plans.  Of  course  the  time  is  very  appropriate ;  for 
one  might  almost  regard  you  as  making  a  new  start  in 
life " 

"I?"  said  he,  in  great  alarm.  Had  she  guessed,  then, 
of  that  mortal  crisis  through  which  he  had  come,  when  the 


SHANDON  BELLS.  825 

value  seemed  to  go  out  of  life  altogether,  and  death  to  take 
its  place  as  the  more  desirable  thing? 

"  Yes :  with  all  the  people  talking  ahoiit  the  new 
writer.  Of  course  you  will  be  quite  a  different  person 
when  you  return  to  London.  Do  you  think  when  you  be- 
come great  and  famous,  that  we  shall  expect  you  to  come 
and  read  accounts  of  murders  to  a  j^oor  old  blind  wo- 
man ?  " 

"  Indeed,  I  am  not  likely  to  become  great  and  famous," 
he  said,  honestly  enough.  "  But  I  should  like  to  earn  my 
living  by  literature.  And  I  think  I  might  be  able  to  do 
that;  I  have  just  had  two  letters  that  give  me  good  hope. 
But  do  you  think  that  is  any  reason  why  I  should  prove 
myself  ungrateful  for  all  your  kindness?  I  may  be  able  to 
earn  my  living  at  literature,  as  I  say  ;  and  then  I  would 
not  ask  you  for  the  salary  you  have  been  kind  enough  to 
give  me — you  might  hand  it  over  to  Miss  Chetwynd  for 
her  charities ;  but  that  need  not  prevent  my  coming  to 
read  to  you  each  afternoon  just  as  before,  if  you  will  allow 
me.  For  I  know,"  he  added,  more  lightly,  "  precisely 
what  you  like  in  the  way  of  literature  and  news;  and  I 
would  not  hand  you  over  to  your  niece  again,  who  would 
make  you  believe  that  the  magazines  and  news|)aper8  con- 
tained nothing  but  reports  of  Sanitary  commissions  and 
things  like  that " 

"  Now  I  call  that  too  bad,"  said  Mary  Chetwynd.  "  I 
read  to  auntie  for  years,  and  never  got  *  Thank  you  ;  you 
read  for  a  few  months,  and  she  gives  you  Boat  of  Garry  ! 
And  then  to  have  insult  heaped  upon  me  as  well " 

"  But,  Mr.  Fitzgerald,"  interrupted  Mrs.  Chetwynd,  with 
some  little  agitation^  "  you  speak  of  handing  over  something 
to  Mary's  charities  and  Mary  said  you  had  made  some  sugges- 
tion. Now  you  must  understand  this — do  not  think  I  am  un- 
reasonable— but  you  must  really  understand  that  any  propo- 
sal of  that  kind  with  regard  to  Boat  of  Garry  is  out  of  the 
question.  I  will  give  you  the  place.  I  will  give  you  enough 
to  keep  it  up,  and  a  surplus  for  your  own  expenses.  But 
either  let  or  sold  or  mortgaged  Boat  of  Garry  shall  not  be." 

"  But,  auntie  dear,"  said  Mary  Chetwynd,  in  her  soft, 
persuasive  voice,  "  Mr.  Fitzgerald  understands  that !  I 
told  him.  It  was  only  a  chance  suggestion  of  his — gen- 
erous but  impracticable.  You  need  not  worry  yourself 
about  it,  more  especially  as  you  can  easily  put  it  out  of 
the  power  of  any  one  to  sell  the  place.     Only  I  would  not 


326  SHANDON  BELLS. 

have  you  make  any  one  a  present  with  any  doubt  remain- 
ing in  your  mind.     Mr.  Fitzgerald  won't  sell  Boat  of  Garry." 

"  If  it  were  handed  over  to  me  like  that,"  said  he,  simply 
enough,  "  surely  I  could  not  do  less  than  consider  I  held 
in  on  trust.  It  should  be  done  with  entirely  and  merely  as 
3'^ou  wished." 

"  I  would  rather  make  it  binding  on  your  honor  than 
leave  it  to  the  lawyers,"  said  she  in  a  calmer  way.  "  what 
I  should  like  would  be  to  have  the  place  kept  exactly  as  it 
is,  and  to  be  well  looked  after,  so  that  if  you  should  at  any 
time  think  of  asking  us  to  come  and  look  at  it,  it  would 
be  really  coming  to  the  old  place  again,  and  seeing  it  jiist 
as  it  was  when — when  my  poor  boy  was  so  proud  of  it. 
For  why  should  you  not  be  proud  of  it  too  ?  It  is  a  pretty 
place — " 

"  Mrs.  Chetwynd,"  said  he,  '*  you  speak  as  if  something 
were  needed  to  make  your  splendid  offer  acceptable  to  me. 
I  don't  think  you  can  understand  what  it  is  to  a  young 
fellow  of  my  age  to  be  made  independent — for  that  is  what 
it  would  come  to ;  to  have  his  place  in  the  world  made 
sure  for  him,  and  that  place  a  most  attractive  one.  I  have 
been  near  starvation  once  or  twice — and  not  so  long  ago. 
And  now  you  offer  me  an  assured  income,  and  all  kinds  of 
luxuries,  and  yet  you  imagine  %hat  I  don't  quite  appreciate 
your  kindness,  or  might  be  so  ungrateful  as  to  do  with  the 
property  something  not  according  to  your  wishes.  I  don't 
think  you  need  have  much  fear." 

"  I  will  trust  to  your  honor,  and  not  to  the  lawyers," 
she  said.  "I  will  make  no  conditions  when  the  transfer- 
ence is  drawn  out.  I  won't  ask  you  to  take  our  name,  as 
I  had  thought  of  doing ;  it  will  be  enough  if  you  do  what 
I  want  with  the  place.  And  if  the  money  is  not  enough, 
there  will  be  more.  But  about  the  name :  I  will  ask  you 
to  let  me  call  you  Willie  when  you  come  to  see  me  in  Lon- 
don— if  you  do  not  mind." 

"  Oh  no  ;  it  is  only  another  part  of  your  kindness." 

"  It  is  a  bargain,  then  ?  " 

<*  If  you  wish  it  to  be,  Mrs.  Chetwynd,"  he  was  saying, 
rather  doubtfully,  for  he  was  wondering  whether  she  would 
always  approve  of  what  she  had  done,  and  perhaps  was 
thinking  of  asking  her  to  take  time  to  reflect.  But  he 
caught  the  look  of  Mary  Chetwynd's  face.  There  was  a 
touch  of  surprise  there — almost  of  reproach.  She  seemed 
to  say,  "  Why  do  you  hesitate  ?    Is  that  the  way  to  accjep t 


SHANDON  BELLS.  827 

Bucli  a  gift  ?  "  So  he  only  said,  *'  If  I  only  kuew  how  to 
thank  you ! " 

"  Never  mind  that,"  said  the  old  lady,  good-naturedly. 
"  It  is  a  bargain,  then  ?     Shake  hands  on  it !  " 

So  he  rose  and  went  round,  and  they  shook  hands  to 
seal  the  covenant,  as  it  were ;  and  then  he  kissed  her  hand 
in  mute  token  of  gratitude,  and  went  back  to  his  seat. 
The  ceremony  was  a  brief  one ;  but  after  that  she  never  ex- 
pressed any  anxiety  as  to  what  might  become  of  Boat  of 
Garry. 

"  And  now  about  yourself — "  She  hesitated  for  a  sec- 
end,  and  flushed  a  little.  Evidently  she  had  tried  to  call 
him  "  Willie,"  and  had  failed.  "  Tell  me  what  your  plans 
are.     Mary  says  you  would  like  to  go  back  to  London." 

"  I  was  thinking  I  should  like  to  get  back  for  a  short 
time  ;  but  it  is  of  little  consequence ;  I  will  remain  here  if 
you  prefer  it." 

"  Oh,  but  that  won't  do  at  all.  I  did  not  buy  you  into 
slavery  like  that.  The  landlord  of  Boat  of  Garry  must  do 
as  he  pleases.  You  shall  go  back  to  London  to-morrow  if 
you  wish." 

"I  could  not  do  that  either,"  said  he,  with  a  smile. 
"For  I  was  thinking,  if  you  did  not  object,  I  would  ask 
my  artist  friend  John  Ross  to  come  over  here  and  make 
some  sketches.  They  talk  of  putting  illustrations  into  the 
volume  they  are  going  to  publish  for  me  ;  and  if  Mr.  Ross 
were  to  come  to  Boat  of  Garry — I  mean  if  you  didn't  mind 
it — I  could  show  him  where  to  make  his  sketches,  and  1 
suppose  they  could  transform  them  into  woodcuts." 

"Bless  the  boy!  "the  old  lady  said,  with  her  pretty 
laugh.  "  Is  he  asking  for  permission  to  invite  a  man  to 
come  to  his  own  house  ?  " 

"  He  is  rather  a  wild  sort  of  colt,  and  not  easily  led," 
Fitzgerald  said,  doubtfully. 

"  For  my  part,"  said  Mary  Chetwynd,  who  had  not 
spoken  for  some  time,  "  whoever  goes  back,  I  must,  very 
soon." 

"  Mary,  there  is  not  a  soul  in  London  !  "  her  auntie  ex- 
claimed. 

"  Is  there  not,  auntie?  I  can  assure  you  that  my  friends 
about  the  Mile-end  Road  don't  go  to  Biarritz  or  Mentone— i 
not  as  a  rule." 

*'  Why,  now,  I  wanted  Mr.  Fitzgerald  to  go  back  with 


828  SHANDON-  BELLS. 

us — after  a  Jittlc  while  —  just  to  have   evorytfting    put 
Btraight— " 

"  Oh,  I  don't  mind  waiting  here  for  a  little  while  yet,*' 
Mary  Chetwynd  said  at  once.  "I  think  1  have  earned  a 
little  longer  holiday ;  and  as  for  you,  auntie,  as  you  are  a 
good-for-nothing,  it  does  not  matter  where  you  are." 

"And  I  tliouijht  w.e  might  make  the  homeward  journey 
in  part  a  driving  excursion — going  round  by  way  of  Killar 
ney.     Wouldn't  tlmt  be  charming  ?  " 

"  Killarney  ?"  said  Fitzgerald,  with  a  quick  catching  of 
the  breath.  And  he  could  only  add  :  "  Oh,  do  you  think 
so?" 

"  Don't  you  ?  "  she  said,  regarding  him  with  astonishment. 
"Have  you,  an  Irishman,  anything  to  say  against  Kil- 
larney?" 

"Oh  no,"  he  said,  rather  under  his  breath.  And  then 
he  stammered :  "  No  doubt  Killarney  is  very  pretty — oh, 
yes,  })retty  enough.  But — but  it  is  scarcely  anything  more, 
is  it  ?  Perhaps  I  am  not  just  to  it.  But  I  don't  care  about 
fresh- water  lakes-j-the  mysterious  association  of  the  sea  is 
BO  wonderful  a  thing.  Do — do  you  really  think  it  would 
be  worth  while  taking  all  the  time  to  drive  round  by 
Killarney." 

''Then  what  do  you  say  to  Inisheen  ?  " 
She  did  not  notice  that  the  blood  forsook  his  face  for 
a   second.      But  Mary   Chetwynd   noticed    it,   and   said, 
quickly : — 

"  Auntie,  I  declare  to  you  I  am  not  going  to  waste  my 
time  in  driving  excursions.  These  are  for  idle  people. 
And  Dan  and  Wellington  always  get  fidgety  when  they 
are  put  up  in  strange  stables :  do  you  mean  to  have  our 
necks  broken  ?  " 

"  My  dear,  I  wanted  Mr.  Fitzgerald  to  show  us  some  of 

the  wonderful  places  he  has  described " 

"  But  you  can  see  them  all  around  here,"  said  her  neice. 
"  There  is  far  more  of  Boat  of  Garry  than  of  Inisheen — if 
it  is  Inisheen — in  the  papers.  And  what  we  ought  to  do 
is  to  give  all  the  time  we  can  spare  to  Mr.  Ross,  so  that  we 
shall  have  Boat  of  Garry  glorified  and  made  as  famous  as 
the  book  is  sure  to  be.  So  I,  for  one,  vote  against  both 
Killarnev  and  Inisheen;  those  on  the  other  side  may  hold 
tiicir  right  hands — their  right  hand — up." 

"  Well,  you  always  have  your  own  way,  Mary,"  her 
aunt  said,  contentedly. 


SHANDON  BELLS.  329 

I' 

"  And  indeed,  auntie,  you  liavc  not  yet  .asked  Mr. 
Fitzgerald  wliethcr  he  would  prefer  to  go  with  us  or  rather 
clioosc  his  own  time.  It  isn't  every  one  who  cares  to  go 
travelling  with  women.  Now  what  I  consider  would  be 
the  reasonable  and  sensible  plan  would  be  this " 

"  Whatever  agrees  with  your  own  wishes,  Mary,  is 
always  the  reasonable  and  sensible  plan,"  said  her  aunt, 
with  a  smile. 

'*  Well,  but  listen.  The  opposition  can  hold  up  its 
right  hand  when  the  proper  time  comes.  Mr.  Fitzgerald 
ouglit  to  go  back  to  London  shortly  to  arrange  about  his 
literary  affairs  there.  I  must  go  back  for  there  are  too 
many  of  us  away  at  this  time  of  the  year.  Now  we  will 
assume  that  Mr.  Fitzgerald  will  either  be,  or  pretend  to  be, 
content  to  be  burdened  with  us  two  women,  and  take  oui 
tickets  and  all  the  rest  of  it,  and  get  grumbled  at  if  we  lose 
anything;  and  so  what  I  say  is,  let  us  have  a  little  longer 
holiday  here,  not  bothering  about  any  Killarnoy  or  Inisheeii  ; 
then,  let  us  all  go  back  to  London ;  then  let  Mr.  Fitzgerald, 
when  his  affairs  there  are  put  in  proper  train,  come  back 
liere,  along  with  Mr.  Ross,  for  the  shooting.  What  a  pity 
it  would  be  to  miss  the  shooting " 

•'  Well,  you  are  right  there,  Mary,"  said  the  old  lady, 
eagerly ;  for  was  she  not  anxious  that  Fitzgerald  should 
appreciate  all  the  advantages  of  the  place  she  liad  given 
him. 

''  And  of  what  use  are  women  in  a  house  at  such  a 
time?  After  a  hard  day  on  the  hill,  the  men  always  go  to 
sleep  after  dinner.  Then,  according  to  my  plan,  there 
Avould  be  no  hurry ;  and  jMr.  Jloss  could  do  his  sketches  at 
his  own  leisure,  and  do  justice  to  the  scenery ;  and  we 
should  all  be  very  ])leased  to  have  such  a  nice  souvenir  of 
the  place.  For  who  knows  what  turn  affairs  may  take, 
and  who  knows  whether  Mr.  Fitzgerald  may  be  inclined 
to  ask  us  ever  again  to  visit  Boat  of  Garry?  I  was  going 
to  suggest  that  he  might  invite  us  for  Christmas;  but 
Christmas  is  too  busy  a  time  with  me." 

"  I  was  going  to  say,  Mrs.  Chetwynd,"  said  Fitzgerald, 
who  had  been  sitting  with  his  eyes  fixed  on  the  table — and 
he  spoke  rather  slowly,  and  with  a  trifle  of  embarrassment 
— "  that  if  you  would  prefer  driving  round  by  Killaruey, 
I  should  be  most  happy  to  go  that  way  with  you  ;  and  to 
Inisheen  also,  if  you  wished." 

"Oh,  I  wash  my  hands  of  the  whole  affair,"  the  cheer. 


330  SHANDON  BELLS. 

fill  old  lady  said.  "I  have  nothing  to  do  with  it.  She 
arranges  everything.  Settle  it  between  you.  I  am  nothing 
but  a  doll  in  her  hands." 

"  But  then  you  are  such  a  pretty  doll,  auntie  dear,"  her 
niece  said,  "  and  such  a  gentle  and  well-behaved  doll,  I  have 
never  the  least  trouble  with  you.  Now  come  outside,  before 
it  gets  too  dark,  and  we  will  have  coffee  there.  AH  the 
evening  sounds  are  so  soft  and  quiet  just  before  the  night 
comes  on ;  and  you  will  have  a  thick  shawl  wrapped 
round  your  head  and  shoulders,  auntie ;  and  we  will  wait 
for  the  new  moon,  and  turn  over  all  the  silver  in  our 
pockets.  Poor  old  Boat  of  Garry — it  has  gone  away  into 
the  hands  of  strangers  ;  but  we  will  have  one  more  quiet 
evening  outside  the  porch,  listening  to  the  streams,  until 
the  moon  comes  up  behind  the  acacia,  and  then  it  will  bo 
time  to  get  indoors  again." 

It  was  a  peaceful  night—  a  night  to  be  remembered.  To 
one  of  them  there  it  seemed  as  if  some  haven  might  bo 
reached,  after  all — of  content,  and  affection,  and  gratitude. 
The  darkness  gathered  over  hill  and  shore  ;  the  moon  rose 
into  the  clear  heavens  behind  the  trembling  acacia  leaves ; 
the  stream  murmured  down  there  beyond  the  lawn  ;  the  air 
was  soft  from  the  sea.  A  gracious  night.  There  was 
hardly  any  need  for  speaking ;  it  was  enough  to  sit  and 
watch  the  moon  slowly  rise,  and  the  faint  light  tell  on  the 
grass  and  the  gravel.  Then  there  was  a  stirring  of  leaves 
around,  and  the  air  felt  colder.  It  was  with  something  of 
a  sigh  that  they  got  up,  and  took  their  things  with  them, 
and  went  indoors,  leaving  the  slumbering  world  and  th3 
scarcely  breathing  sea  to  the  silence  and  the  stars. 

When  Fitzgerald  went  up  to  his  room  later  on,  after 
having  bade  them  good-night,  and  also  having  made  another 
sort  of  effort  to  let  the  old  lady  know  that  he  was  fully  sen- 
sible of  her  great  generosity  toward  him,  he  found  a  half- 
sheet  of  note-paper  placed  somewhat  prominently  on  the 
dressing-table,  and  at  the  first  glance  he  recognized  the 
clear,  pretty  handwriting  to  be  that  of  Mary  Chetwynd, 
There  was  no  message  or  explanation,  only  these  words : 
*•'' I  hereby  promise  to  contribute  twenty  pounds  a  year  to 
the  fund  for  providing  toys  for  hospital  children^ 

Well,  he  sat  down  and  contemplated  these  words, 
knowing  very  well  what  they  meant.  It  was  an  invitation 
to  him  to  give  to  those  poor  children  some  small  portion  of 
the  bounties  that  had  been  heaped  on  him.     And  the  moi'e 


SHANDON  BELLS,  83J 

he  thought  of  it,  the  more  he  was  conA^inced  that  it  would 
be  a  very  strange  thing  if  his  literary  efforts  could  not  pro- 
duce a  yearly  sum  as  great  as  that,  or  even  considerably 
greater.  As  for  the  monetary  arrangements  that;  Mrs. 
Chetwynd  might  be  disposed  to  make,  he  knew  nothing 
about  them  as  yet ;  but  he  understood  that  practically  lie 
was  to  have  an  income  that  would  render  him  independent. 
Surely,  then,  literature  might  enable  him  to  do  as  much  as 
this,  or  more  ?  So  he  went  and  got  a  pen,  and  scored  out 
the  word  "  twenty^''  and  inserted  the  word  '"''fifty^''  adding 
his  signature  in  full —  William  Fitzgerald.  And  then  he 
enclosed  this  document  in  an  envelope,  which  he  addressed 
to  Miss  Chetwynd,  thinking  he  would  leave  it  on  the 
breakfast  table  for  her  in  the  morning,  without  another 
word. 


CHAPTER  XXX. 

THE    BOOK. 


Well,  in  due  course  of  time — that  is  to  say,  about  the 
end  of  October — the  original  "  Occupations  of  a  Recluse," 
along  with  numerous  additions,  and  with  a  series  of  illus- 
trations taken  from  sepia  drawings  by  John  Ross,  were 
given  to  the  public  in  book  form,  and  almost  instantly  com- 
manded a  very  large  sale  indeed,  and  were  widely  talked  of. 
The  publishers  happened  to  be  masters  of  the  art  of  doing 
a  good  thing  well,  and  had  spared  neither  trouble  nor  cost 
in  getting  these  sepia  drawings  transformed  into  a  set  of 
admirable  woodcuts,  while  many  people  who  had  read  the 
"Occupations"  in  a  fugitive  way  as  they  appeared  in  the 
Daily  Mirror  were  glad  to  have  them  in  this  permanent 
form.  Moreover,  the  reviewers  received  the  book  favor- 
ably, although  one  or  two  rather  complainingly  asked 
how  they  could  be  expected  to  classify  this  amorphous 
hotch-potch  of  philosophy,  poetry,  and  snipe-shooting,  as  if 
there  were  any  necessity  that  they  should  classify  it  at  all ; 
while  the  Liberal  Beview  said  that,  although  the  writer  of 
these  papers  was  a  contributor  to  their  own  columns  (editors 
are  but  human,  and  cannot  avoid  these  little  touches),  they 
did  not  see  that  was  any  reason  why  they  should  not  praise 


332  SIIANDON  BELLS, 

good  work  when    they  found  it.     And  when  the  Liberal 
llcwew  people  set  about  praishig  a  book,  they  do  it. 

In  tlie  circumstances  it  was  not  likely  that  Mr.  Scobell 
should  miss  his  opportunity,  and  forthwith  he  made  his  way 
down  to  the  Fulham  Road.  Fitzgerald  still  occupied  the 
long  low-roofed  room  there,  for  the  sake  of  auld  lang  syne 
but  now  there  was  a  heavy  j^or^iere  shutting  off  the  bedroom 
end,  and  there  were  some  comfortable  chairs,  and  more 
cheerful-looking  rugs,  while  over  the  fireplace  stood  two 
brilliant  Chanak-Kalesi  jugs  that  Miss  Chetwynd  had  given 
him,  and  that  were  the  sole  ornament  of  the  room.  Mrs. 
Chetwynd,  indeed,  had  begged  of  him  to  take  some  better 
looms  in  one  of  the  streets  leading  from  Piccadilly,  but  he 
asked  to  be  excused,  for  he  had  no  mind  to  spend  much 
money  on  himself.  In  fact,  he  was  living  pretty  much  in 
his  old  way  ;  although,  on  one  occasion,  when  both  uunt  and 
niece  weni  down  to  his  humble  lodging  to  have  afternoon 
tea,  he  went  to  the  extravagance  beforehand  of  purchasing 
a  modern  Japanese  tea-set  and  a  few  pots  of  flowers.  It 
was  then  that  Miss  Chetwynd  said  the  room  looked  too 
bare,  and  promised  him  the  two  green  and  scarlet  jugs. 

"  My  dear  f  lah, '  said  Mr.  Scobell,  laying  his  hat  and  cane 
on  the  table,  and  taking  off  his-  yellow  gloves,  ''let  me  con 
gratulate  you  !  You  have  done  it  at  a  bound — at  a  bound. 
It  is  the  only  book  talked  of  at  every  dinner  table  you  go 
to.  By  Jove,  sir,  when  I  told  them  last  night  at  Lady 
Lampley's  that  I  knew  every  inch  of  your  career,  I  found 
everybody  listening.  And  I  knew  it ;  I  predicted  it :  I  said  so 
to  Gifford.  I  said  to  him  when  I  met  him,  '  Gifford,  my 
dear  f'lah,  you  don't  know  what  people  are  talking  about ; 
you  are  in  your  own  set.  You  keep  among  a  literary  set 
and  don't  know  what  society  is  talking  about.  Why  don't 
you  get  Fitzgerald  to  write  for  you  ?  Why  should  he  write 
only  for  the  Mirror — a  tradesunion  Methodistical  Republi- 
can rag  like  that?  '  Not  that  I  approve  of  the  politics  of 
\\\Q, Liberal  Review  either;  you  can't  ex])ect  me  ;  but  what 
I  say  is  that  the  Liberal  liemew  is  a  gentlemanly  sort  of 
paper,  after  all :  you  see  it  in  good  houses;  when  I  go  into 
my  club  I  find  it  lying  about." 

All  this  while  he  was  looking  around. 

"  My  dear  f'lah,  this  won't  do  at  all.     When  a  penniles>N, 
su))crcilious  good-for-nothing  like  that  fellow  Hilton  Clarke 
Bticks  himself  up  in  the  Albany — " 
,    "  Poor  chap,  ho  is  no  longer  in  the  Albany." 


SIIANDON  BELLS  833 

" — I  say,  why  should  you  be  living  in  a  bunk  like  this? 
Damme,  sir,  you  Kliouldhave  rooms  in  Curzon  Street,  and  a 
private  hansom,  and  a  hack  for  the  Park  !  I  am  told  that 
Mrs.  Chetwynd  makes  you  a  very  handsome  allowance." 

"  She  does.  But,  you  know,  literature  is  best  cultivated 
on  a  little  oatmeal.  And  I  find  enough  to  do  with  my  spare 
cash  in  another  way." 

"  Oh,  but,  my  dear  f 'lah,"  said  Mr.  Scobell,  with  a  lofty 
smile  "  you  are  throwing  away  your  chances.  You  miglit  go 
everywhere — you  might  go  to  the  very  best  houses.  I'll  tell 
you  what  now, — my  wife  shall  send  you  a  card  for  one  of  her 
At  Homes  ;  and  you  ought  really  to  come,  don't  you  know  ; 
you'll  meet  some  of  the  very  best  people,  I  give  you  my 
word.  What's  more,  I  want  you,  like  a  good  f 'lah,  to  give 
me  a  night  for  a  little  dinner  at  my  club  ;  it  isn't  a  big  club 
it  isn't  one  of  the  big  swell  clubs,  isn't  the  Abercorn  ;  but 
you'll  meet  a  very  good  class  of  men  there,  I  can  tell  you. 
And  I'll  ask  old  GiSord,  if  you  like,  and  anybody  else  you 
like,  and  we'll  have  a  little  bit  of  a  celebration,  don't  you 
know  ;  for  I  tell  you  what  it  is,  Fitzgerald,  old  f 'lah,  I  feel  as 
if  I  had  had  a  finger  in  the  pie,  don't  you  know,  and — and 
damme  if  I'm  not  proud  of  it,  and  precious  glad  that  you've 
made  such  a  hit!" 

There  was  really  some  fi-ank  good-nature  mixed  up 
with  tlie  man's  vanity.     He  took  out  his  note-book. 

"  What  night  shall  it  be  ?  "  he  said.     "  Let  it  be  a  Satur- 
day, the  15th  or  the  22d,  and  we'll  have  a  house-dinner ;  and 
you'll  see  if  the  Abercorn  can't  give  you  as  good  a  dinner 
and  as  good  a  glass  of  wine  as  any  club  in  London." 
"  Either  night  you  like,  then." 

"  We'll  say  the  22d,  to  give  more  time.  What  I  say 
is,  do  a  thing  well.  A  man  has  no  right  to  ask  me  to  dine 
at  his  club,  and  give  me  the  sort  of  dinner  you'd  get  at  a 

common  restaurant.     When  I  ask  a  man  to  my  club  I 

want  him  to  have  the  best  that's  in  the  kitclien  and  the  cel- 
lar ;  and  I'm  not  above  taking  trouble  about  it.  What  I 
say  is,  do  the  thing  well.  There's  a  lot  of  people,  don't  you 
know,  nowadays,  who  pretend  to  be  above  all  that ;  being 
particular  about  good  dinners  and  good  wines  and  good 
cigars  is  beneath  their  high  mightinesses'  notice ;  they  pre- 
tend they  prefer  water  to  a  claret  that  cost  you  a  hundred 
shillings  a  dozen.  Rubbish — all  rubbish.  What  I  say  is, 
the  good  things  of  this  life  wouldn't  be  there  if  they  weren't 
to  be  used ;  and  I  suppose  Providence knews  as  much  about 


384         """'  SHANDON  BELLS. 

-what's  good  for  you  as  any  of  the  scientific  swells.  There  s* 
a  good  deal  of  tliat  sort  of  nonsense  goes  on  at  the  Chet-' 
wynds' ;  but  the  Chetwynds  are  not  in  fault.  Upon  my 
soul,  I  don't  tliink  it's  respectful  to  your  hostess  to  nibble  a 
bit  of  bread  and  a  cutlet,  and  drink  a  glass  of  water,  and 
call  that  your  dinner ;  I  don't  think  it's  nice  ;  I  call  it  bad 
form,  I  do  ;  if  any  fellow  did  that  at  my  table,  I'm  hanged 
if  he'd  find  himself  there  again.  The  22d,  seven  forty-five, 
good." 

This  was  the  ti  ue  object  of  his  visit ;  and  he  clasped 
his  note-book  together  again  with  a  satisfied  air.  Then  he 
took  up  his  hat  and  gloves. 

"  You  made  a  suggestion — you  were  kind  enough — " 
said  Fitzgerald,  timidly.  And  then  he  frankly  said,  "  1| 
wish  you  would  ask  my  friend  Ross  too,  who  made  the 
sketches,  you  know." 

"  Delighted  I  My  dear  f'lah,  a  thousand  thanks  for  the 
hint.     Delighted  ! " 

He  took  out  his  note-book  again. 

"  Give  me  his  address,  and  I  will  write  to  him  at  once. 
Delighted,  I  assure  you.  A  deuced  clever  fellow  that ;  the 
landscapes  Mrs.  Chetwynd  has  of  his  are  excellent — I  call 
them  firstrate." 

"  But  he  lives  just  below,"  Fitzgerald  said,  looking  at 
his  watch.  "  And  he  will  probably  be  at  work  now.  Will 
you  go  down  and  see  him  ?  " 

"  By  all  means." 

They  went  down  the  stairs,  and  knocked  at  the  door  of 
the  studio,  and  were  admitted  apologizing  for  their  intru- 
sion. 

"Not  a  bit,"  said  John  Ross,  who  had  his  pipe  in  his 
fingers.  *'  Come  in.  I  was  painting  the  portrait  of  the 
collie  there,  and  he's  not  a  good  sitter;  he  was  continually 
falling  asleep,  and  I  got  tired  ©'whistling  the  poor  creature 
awake,  and  was  having  a  glint  at  the  newspaper." 

Mr.  Scobell  looked  strangely  around  at  the  big,  hollow- 
sounding  studio.  And  then,  with  much  roundabout  phrase- 
ology and  compliment,  he  explained  the  object  of  his  visit ; 
Ross's  reply  being  briefly, — 

"  Yes,  I  will." 

But  Mr.  Scobell  did  not  stop  there.  He  began  to  make 
a  round  of  the  studio,  and  to  offer  remarks ;  while  John 
Ross  became  a  trifle  peevish. 

"  Now  I'll  tell  you  what  I'll  do,  Mr.  Ross,"  said  he,  in 


SHANDON  BELLS.  335, 

his  grand  manner.  "  I  don't  see  that  an  artist  who  can 
paint  like  that  should  not  be  known.  I'll  tell  you  what  I'll 
do ;  I'll  ask  Sydenham  to  come  to  this  very  dinner." 

Mr.  Sydenham  was  a  very  distinguished  painter  and 
Academician;  the  husband,  indeed,  of  the  lady  whom  Fitz- 
gerald had  on  one  occasion  taken  down  to  supper,  and  who 
had  politely  declined  to  be  bribed  by  sandwiches. 

"  Sydenham's  a  good  fellow,  a  deuced  good  fellow;  and 
a  word  from  him  would  do  you  no  harm.  Now  that  is  a 
mistake  of  so  many  of  you  artists  and  authors,  don't  you 
know ;  you  keep  hidden  away  among  yourselves,  and  you 
don't  go  about  and  get  to  know  the  people  you  ought  to 
know.  I  dare  sav  now,  you  never  met  an  Academician  in 
your  life?" 

"  The  Academy  and  I  are  not  likely  to  become  great 
friends,"  said  Ross,  dryly.  "  I  am  a  heretic.  I  will  not 
conform.  I  like  to  paint  in  my  own  fashion,  and  they  let 
me ;  and  they  go  their  way,  and  I  go  mine,  and  there  is  no 
quarrel  between  us.  Indeed,  I  am  not  sure  but  that  they 
try  to  do  me  a  favor  when  they  put  anything  I  send  them 
near  the  roof — the  effect  of  distance,  ye  see,  may  soften  the 
things  down  a  bit." 

"  But  you  don't  mean  to  say,  now,"  remarked  Mr.  Sco- 
bell,  coming  to  a  dead  pause  before  a  rough  sketch  that  was 
])ropped  up  on  the  mantelpiece — a  very  rough  sketch,  in- 
deed, of  a  farmyard,  with  one  or  two  cattle  and  a  heap  of 
straw  warm  in  sunlight,  "that  they  would  not  give  a  good 
place  to  a  picture  like  that?  Now  I  call  that  uncommonly 
good.  I  have  seen  a  good  many  pictures  in  my  time.  I 
have  been  to  half  the  galleries  in  Europe — and  precious 
sick  of  them  I  got  sometimes,  I  can  tell  you.  I  don't  profess 
to  be  a  judge,  but  I  know  a  good  picture  when  I  see  it; 
and  I  say  that  calf  is  as  well  painted  a  calf  as  anybody 
could  want.  Rough,"  said  he,  waving  his  hand  slightly, 
"a  little  rough.  Wanting  in  finish,  don't  you  know.  But 
a  first-rate  sketch  ;  what  I  call  an  uncommon  good  sketch, 
I  should  not  mind  having  that  hung  up  in  my  hall.  But 
the  gable  of  the  house  is  a  Uetle  tumbled-over,  isn't  it — I 
would  suggest — " 

lie  took  the  canvas  down,  and  held  it  out  at  arm's- 
length,  examining  it  critically. 

"  It  is  nothing — it  is  a  daub,"  said  John  Ross,  rather 
impatiently,  and  he  got  the  canvas  out  of  his  hands  and 
put  it  up  again,  with  its  face  to  the  wall. 


836  SHANDON  BELLS. 

But  Mr.  Scobell  resumed  possession  of  it,  and  again 
held  it  out  at  arm's-length. 

*'  No,  no,"  he  said,  patronizingly  ;  "  it  has  merit.  It  is 
well  balanced.  I  call  the  light  and  shade  of  that  sketch 
very  well  balanced  indeed.  And  I  am  not  afraid  to  trust 
my  own  judgment.  1  never  give  an  opinion  without  being 
ready  to  back  it  with  money.  My  notion  is  that  a  man 
should  buy  pictures  that  please  himself ;  why  should  he 
care  what  other  people  think?  No,  what  I  say  is,  that's  a 
very  good  sketch ;  an  uncommon  good  sketch  it  is ;  very 
well  balanced  light  and  shadow ;  and  the  long  and  the 
short  of  it  is,  Mr. — Mr.  Ross,  that  I  will  buy  it.  I  should 
not  be  at  all  ashamed  to  have  that  sketch  hung  up  in  my 
hall— '» 

But  now  the  red-bearded  artist  became  very  angry,  and 
got  hold  of  the  unlucky  sketch,  and  sent  it  spinning  to  the 
end  of  the  studio,  where  it  unhappily  hit  the  sleeping  collie, 
that  forthwith  sprang  up  with  a  howl,  and  slunk  into  a 
further  corner,  with   its  tail  between  its  legs. 

"  I  would  not  have  such  a  thing  go  out  of  the  place," 
said  he,  briefly. 

But  he  soon  recovered  his  temper  ;  and  when  at  last  Mr. 
Scobell,  after  much  more  encouraging  and  soothing  advice 
and  criticism,  had  left,  all  that  John  lloss  said  to  his  friend 
about  the  visitor  was  merely, — 

"  Man,  he's  a  bletherer,  tliat  one." 

They  went  to  the  dinner,  however,  at  the  Abercorn 
Club  ;  and  a  very  sumptuous  affair  it  was.  They  had  the 
Strangers'  Dining-room  to  themselves,  and  it  was  bril- 
liantly lit,  and  the  table  was  magnificently  decorated  with 
flowers.  Of  the  gentlemen  present  Fitzgerald  only  knew 
his  host,  his  companion  Ross,  Mr.  Gifford,  and,  by  sight 
Mr.  Sydenham ;  but  he  was  introduced  to  the  others  by 
Mr.  Scobell  with  a  series  of  pompous  little  compliments, 
the  ordeal  not  being  the  less  severe  that  these  portly  middle- 
aged  persons  regarded  him  with  such  a  silent,  blank,  lack- 
lustre-eyed scrutiny  that  he  was  on  the  point  of  saying, 
"  Upon  my  soul  I  don't  bite."  lie  wondered  what  manner 
of  men  these  were ;  and  the  mystery  was  not  rendered  loss 
inscrutable  when,  after  they  had  sat  down,  Mr.  Scobell 
remarked  to  him  in  an  undertone, — 

"  There's  four  millions  at  this  table." 

According  to  Fitzgerald's  way  of  counting,  there  were 


SITANDON  BELLS,  337 

only  ten  persons  ;  so  he  was  more  hopelessly  in  a  fog  than 
ever. 

"  Four  millions,  if  there's  a  farthing,"  continued  Mr. 
Scobell,  in  the  same  low  tone.  "And  as  you  and  your 
friend  Ross  and  Sydenham  and  1  have  little  enough,  you 
may  imagine  what  the  other  sir  have  amongst  them.  Tho 
man  opposite  me  and  his  right-hand  neighbor  are  Directors 
of  the  Bank  of  England." 

Then  FitzEjerald  bes^an  to  see.  No  wonder  these  s^entle- 
men  were  grave  if  they  had  the  responsibility  of  owning 
four  millions  of  money  weighing  on  them  ;  and  there  was  a 
business-like  seriousness  in  the  way  they  attacked  their 
dinner,  not  turning  aside  for  frivolous  pleasantries,  but 
keeping  a  sharp  eye  on  the  successive  dishes.  In  course  of 
time,  however,  the  severity  of  their  demeanor  abated  ;  the 
staccato  remarks  about  the  probability  of  another  European 
war,  which  hitherto  had  represented  their  conversation, 
developed  into  a  unanimous  abuse  of  the  foreign  policy  of 
the  then  French  Government ;  and  then  again  one  funny 
man  at  the  end  of  the  table  would  succeed  in  getting  his 
next  neighbor  to  laugh  (when  not  too  busy).  John  Koss 
and  the  great  Academician  appeared  to  have  become  friends 
at  once,  and  were  talking  in  an  animated  fashion ;  Mr. 
Gifford  v/as  rather  in  an  absent  frame  of  mind ;  while  Sco- 
bell, at  the  head  of  the  table,  beamed  and  shone  upon  his 
guests  in  silence. 

"  Well,  Fitzgerald,"  said  Mr.  Gifford  at  length,  "  since 
we  last  dined  together  one  of  the  little  group  has  rather 
dropped  under." 

"Do  you  know  anything  about  him?  Do  you  know 
where  he  is  ?  "  said  his  neighbor,  knowing  well  whom  hff 
meant. 

*'  In  Paris.  Not  very  well  off,  I  fear.  He  married  Lady 
Ipswich  after  the  decree  nisi  was  made  absolute ;  and 
I  believe  her  friends  made  some  small  provision  for  her : 
but  Clarke  had  always  careless  and  expensive  habits,  and  ] 
am  afraid  he  is  a  little  given  to  borrowing.  But  they  have 
a  pretty  house,  I  am  told,  just  outside  the  Marble  Arch." 
"  The  Arc  de  Triomphe^'  his  neighbor  suggested. 
"  Well,  yes  :  what  did  I  say  ?  I  hope  his  book  will  be 
successful;  but  the  subject  has  so   little  interest  for  the 

general  public " 

«  His  book  ?  what  book  ?  " 


338  SHANDON  BELLS. 

"It  came  to  the  office  the  day  before  yesterday,  I  think. 
The  Laws  and  Limitations  of  Art ^  it  is  called." 

"  Oh,  I  wish  you  would  let  me  review  it !  "  Fitzgerald 
exclaimed,  with  an  eagerness  that  made  his  companion  re- 
gard him  with  a  quick  look. 

"  No,"  said  Mr.  Gifford,  with  an  odd  kind  of  smile  ;  *'  we 
could  not  have  one  of  our  own  reviewers  abused  in  our  own 
reviewing  columns." 

"Your  columns?"  said  Fitzgerald,  in  bewilderment. 
"  Does  Hilton  Clarke  write  for  you  ?  " 

"  Sometimes,"  was  the  answer.  "  The  Weekly  Gazette 
got  tired  of  him  long  ago,  and  he  appealed  to  me.  There 
are  one  or  two  things  he  can  do  very  well.  I  am  sorry  for 
the  fellow.  I  hope  his  book  will  be  successful,  but  I  doubt 
it." 

"  Why  won't  you  let  me  review  it,  then  ?  "  said  Fitz- 
gerald, who  was  on  pretty  familiar  terms  with  the  editor. 
"You  had  some  squabble  with  him,  hadn't  you,  about  the 
Household  Magazhief"  said  Mr.  Gilford,  with  his  piercing 
eyes  regarding  him.  "I  gathered  from  Scobell  that  he  had 
treated  you  rather  badly.  Well,  that  is  nothing  new ;  but 
still—" 

"Oh,  if  you  mean  that,"  Fitzgerald  said,  hastily,  "you 
are  quite  mistaken.  It  is  quite  the  other  way.  I  meant 
to  say  everything  I  could  for  the  book.  He  did  owe  me 
some  money ;  but  then,  on  the  other  hand,  I  owe  him  some- 
thing. But  for  liim  I  dare  say  I  should  at  this  moment  be 
the  sub-editor  of  the  Cork  Chronicle,  I  should  like  to 
23raise  the  book." 

"That  is  quite  as  bad  a  temper,"  said  Mr.  Gifford. 
"We  will  get  some  more  impartial  person — but  some 
friendly  person,  I  hope.  And  why  should  you  want  to 
write  reviews  ?  Scobell  tells  me  you  are  now  the  owner  of 
an  estate  in  Ireland,  and  have  a  handsome  income  besides." 

"  I  want  to  make  all  the  money  I  can,"  Fitzgerald  said, 
^*  for  I  know  i)lenty  of  uses  for  it.  And  as  for  the  Irish 
estate,  I  consider  myself  only  the  steward  of  it ;  though  X 
get  shooting  and  fisliing  for  nothing,  and  also  the  most  de- 
lightful quiet  when  there  is  a  chance  of  running  over.  Ask 
your  neighbor — oh,  let  me  introduce  you:  Mr.  Ross,  Mr. 
Gifford — ask  him — he  is  an  artist — what  he  thinks  of  Boat 
of  Garry." 

Mr.  GLfford  thereupon  turned  to  John  Ross,  and  Fitz- 


SHANDON  BELLS.  839 

gerakl  was  left  unoccupied,  whereupon  Mr.  Scoboll,  who 
had  overheard  some  chance  phrase,  said, — 

"  I  say,  my  dear  f  lah,  what  did  you  mean  by  that  dedi- 
cation ?*  Upon  my  life  I  don't  know  whether  the  dear  old 
lady  was  more  pleased  by  it  or  more  indignant.  She  did 
not  speak  to  you  about  it  perhaps. 

"  Yes  she  did.  She  thanked  me;  that  was  all.  What 
was  there  to  be  indignant  about?" 

"  '  My  dear  Mr.  Scobell,'  she  said  to  me — you  see,  Fitz- 
gerald, I  have  known  the  Chetwynds  for  many  years ;  they 
have  always  been  in  our  set — '  my  dear  Mr.  Scobell,'  she 
said,  '  what  does  the  lad  mean  by  describing  me  as  of  Boat, 
of  Garry  ?  Won't  he  take  it  when  I  give  it  to  him  ?  He 
wanted  to  give  it  to  Mary  to  squander  away ;  and  now  he 
wants  to  saddle  me  with  it.     Can't  I  get  rid  of  it  anyhow?  " 

"  Oh,  but  that  is  all  right,"  said  Fitzgerald.  "  Tliut  is 
quite  settled  and  understood.  Mrs.  Chetwynd  and  I  un- 
derstand the  position  perfectly ;  and  so  also  does  M — Miss 
Chetwynd.". 

So  the  banquet  went  on  ;  the  talk  becoming  generally 
louder;  with  gushes  of  laughter  here  or  there;  and  per- 
haps nothing  occurred  particularly  deserving  of  mention 
except  that  one  tall  and  portly  gentleman,  of  a  most  severe 
and  repellent  countenance,  who  had  been  boring  everybody 
to  death  about  his  travels  in  America,  was  heard  to  re- 
mark, in  the  most  innocent  manner,  of  a  well-known  states- 
man whom  they  were  discussing :  "  Well,  all  I  can  say  is 
that  he  is  a  man  of  very  strange  fancies — very  strange  fan- 
cies indeed.  He  took  a  most  unaccountable  dislike  to  my- 
self. A  most  singular  thing.  Yes,  and  he  showed  it  too — 
damme  he  showed  it."  And  also  that  Master  Willie,  by  a 
base  and  unworthy  subterfuge,  obtained  a  triumph  over  liis 
enemy  of  former  days.  For  he  began  to  talk  to  Mr.  Giff- 
ord  about  familiar  quotations;  and  in  the  most  naive  man- 
ner observe<I  that  few  were  better  known  than 

"  De  par  k  Roi,  defense  a  Diou, 
D'ope'rer  miracle  eu  ce  lieu." 

*  This  was  the  dedication  in  question,  prefixed  to  the  little  vol- 
ume: 

To  my  friend  and  henefaclresSf 
Mks.  Algernon  Chetwynd, 
qf  Hyde  Park  Gardens,  and  Boat  of  Garry,  Ireland,  this  collection  qf 
idle  papers  is  most  r€sp€QtfuUy  dedicated,  _.        ■ 


340  SHANDON  BELLS. 

The  editor  fell  into  the  trajD  headlong. 

"  Defaire  miracle — defaire  miracle^  I  think,"  said  he, 
politely. 

'*  fyopcrer  I  think  it  is,"  said  Fitzgerald,  gi-aciously. 

"  Pardon  me,  I  am  sure  you  are  wrong.  It  is  a  most 
familiar  quotation.     Defaire  miracle^  en  ce  lieu." 

"  I  would  not  contradict  you  ;  for,  as  you  say,  the  coui> 
let  is  so  well  known." 

"  Oh,  there  is  not  a  doubt  of  it — not  a  doubt  of  it. 
Every  schoolboy  knows  it.      Defaire  miracle,  of  course." 

"  My  authority  for  cVojyerer,^^  continued  his  foe,  in  an 
absent  and  indifferent  kind  of  way,  pretending  to  be  very 
busy  in  examining  the  constituents  of  a  mysterious-looking 
Bweet,  "  is  not  very  absolute.  I  found  it  in  the  notes  of  an 
old  edition  I  have  of  Voltaire's  Pucelle,  along  with  a  little 
history  of  St.  Paris.  The  date  of  the  edition  is  1773,  and 
the  couplet  is  spoken  of  as  being  familiar.  But  perhaps  it  is 
a  misquotation." 

"  Perhaps,  perhaps,"  said  Mr.  Gifford  ;  but  he  lightly 
changed  tlie  subject,  and  wanted  Fitzgerald  to  tell  him  l»o\v 
the  Game  Laws  affected  the  poorer  tenantry  in  the  south- 
west of  Ireland.  And  Fitzgerald  im])arted  to  him  what  in- 
formation be  could  on  that  subject,  without  recalling  lo  him 
the  fact  that  they  had  had  a  dis])ute  about  the  same  couj)lct 
in  former  days  when  they  did  not  meet  on  quite  such  equal 
terms. 

At  last  the  bounteous  feast  came  to  an  end  ;  and  there 
was  mucli  hand  shaking  on  the  steps  of  the  Abcrcorn  Club. 
As  far  as  Fitzgerald  was  concerned,  it  very  soon  a])])eared 
that  this  big  dinner  might,  if  ho  chose,  be  regarded  as  only 
the  beginning  of  a  quite  indefinite  series  of  similar  repasts, 
though  perhaps  of  a  more  domestic  kind,  for  the  little  book 
made  its  way  in  a  remarkable  manner ;  and  probably  there 
was  something  in  its  contents  that  made  people  curious  about 
the  personality  of  the  author;  and  no  doubt  he  might  have 
figured  at  a  great  many  afternoon  teas,  and  dinner  ])arlies, 
and  midnight  receptions.  But,  as  it  turned  out,  he  found 
his  life  far  too  full  of  occuj^ation  for  anything  of  the  kind. 
When  he  dined  at  all  in  the  evening,  ho  went  to,  or  stayed  for, 
Mrs.  Chetwynd's  table  cV hohe  ;  and  it  is  more  than  ])rol)ablo 
that  he  would  have  earned  the  contemjU  of  Mr.  Scobell  by 
liis  indifference  to  the  good  things  of  this  world,  or  such  of 
them  as. appeared  on  the  dinner  table.  But  it  was  a  liuo^ 
thing,  this  co^QStant- and  busy.occu|*ation  5 -this  finding  that) 


SHANDON  BELLS.  3  il 

both  time  and  money  were  inadequate  to  the  calls  made 
upon  him.  The  "  old,  hysterical  mock  disease"  got  in  a  man- 
ner jostled  out  of  existence ;  there  was  no  longer  any  room 
for  it.  That  was  all  left  behind  now  ;  except,  alas  !  when 
the  wonder-world  of  sleep  was  opened,  and  again  he  was 
walking  with  Kitty  on  the  sunny  Sunday  mornings  along 
the  hawthorn  lanes  outside  of  Cork,  or  rowing  her  home  in 
moonlight,  she  singing  the  while,  past  the  silent  quays  of 
Inishecn. 


chapteh  XXXI. 

IX   THE   EAST. 


It  may  easily  be  surmised  in  what  direction  Fitzgerald 
was  now  spending  what  time  he  could  spare  from  his  literary 
labors  and  what  money  he  could  save  from  his  stewardship, 
as  he  considered  it,  of  Boat  of  Garry,  At  first  he  accom- 
pained  Miss  Chetwynd  on  one  or  two  of  her  eastern  expedi- 
tions with  far  more  of  curiosity  and  interest  than  of  hope  ; 
for  it  seemed  to  him,  as  it  probably  would  to  any  outsider, 
that  to  seek  to  alleviate  the  distress  and  misery  of  this  vast 
population  with  any  such  means  as  were  at  their  command 
was  about  as  sanguine  as  to  try  to  drain  an  Irish  bog  with 
a  sponge.  Moreover,  it  was  not  very  picturesque — as  she 
had  forewarned  him.  Very  rarely  was  the  wretchedness 
tragic :  it  Avas  merely  mean  and  commonplace :  existence 
in  these  foul-smelling  lanes  and  desolate  grimy  squares 
seemed  a  lacklustre  kind  of  thing;  occasionally  the  people 
were  suspicious  rather  than  grateful,  and  always  they  mis- 
placed their  A's.  But  by  and  by,  as  time  went  on,  and  as 
he  saw  further  into  the  mechanism  of  the  various  organiza- 
tions, he  could  not  help  admiring  the  patient  heroism  of 
those  voluntary  missionaries  who,  not  deterred  by  the  vast- 
ness  or  the  diflficulties  of  the  task,  busily  and  cheerfully  set 
to  work  to  do  what  tiiey  could  ;  and  began  to  see  the  ap- 
preciable fruit  of  their  labors,  even  if  it  were  only  a  touch 
of  light  and  color  added  here  and  there  to  those  poor  ignoble 
liv.9.s— :a^H,0^<?frbpx  Jn  a  .window-sill;;  a  drinking  fountain* 
pefh^I^V  an  exhibftlon'  'of  'jsictitres  ;  a  bi^t  of'grceu  thrown 


342  SHANDON  BELLS, 

open  to  the  children,  with  a  swing  or  two.  Then  the  free 
libraries,  with  books,  magazines,  and  newspapers ;  cool  in 
summer,  and  well-warmed  in  the  winter,  with  coffee  at  a 
penny  a  cup ;  and  the  lectures  and  readings  and  entertain- 
ments, now  putting  some  inkling  of  sanitary  requirements 
into  the  heads  of  the  grown-up  people,  again  teaching  the 
boys  and  lads  something  of  the  qualities  that  built  up  En- 
gland :  and  the  invaluable  district  nurses,  carrying  notions  of 
cleanliness  and  kindliness  into  these  poor  homes  ;  and  so 
forth,  and  so  forth  ;  all  this  busy,  silent,  unobtrusive  work, 
not  appealing  loudly  for  subscriptions,  and  not  claiming  for 
its  authors  any  title  to  martyrdom,  seemed  to  him  a  very 
noble  thing.  The  sympathy  led  to  practical  help.  At  the  out- 
set he  rather  wished  to  act  merely  as  assistant  and  safeguard 
to  the  niece  of  his  benefactress  ;  but  he  soon  found  there 
was  no  need  for  that.  She  had  no  fear,  and  there  was  noth- 
ing to  fear.  In  another  way,  however,  he  was  of  use  to  her. 
Mary  Chetwynd  was  very  much  at  home  in  dealing  with 
"  her  poor  people,"  as  she  called  them,  directly ;  and  she 
had  an  admirable  self-possession  on  the  platform,  whether 
she  was  demonstrating  to  an  assemblage  of  men  and  wo- 
men the  awful  effects  of  drinking  unfiltered  London  water, 
or  reciting  patriotic  poems  to  an  audience  of  Whitechapel 
youths ;  but  at  the  council  board  of  the  society  she  was  some- 
what diffident.  It  very  soon  appeared,  however,  that  when 
Mr.  Fitzgerald  was  in  course  of  time  elected  to  this  board, 
the  new  member  held  very  strong  opinions  about  the  rights 
of  minorities^especially  when  the  minority  was  Mary 
Chetwynd.  Arguments  and  grumbling  were  alike  thrown 
away  upon  him.  No,  there  he  was  ;  there  he  would  stay. 
And  at  last,  upon  the  burning  question  of  beer,  matters 
came  to  a  final  issue. 

"  Very  well,"  said  he,  when  he  and  Miss  Chetwynd  had 
been  entirely  outvoted,  *'  we  need  not  quarrel.  You  may 
go  your  way,  but  you  can't  hinder  me  from  going  mine. 
As  I  said,  I  don't  think  a  glass  of  ale  can  do  any  harm — if 
not  given  to  the  boys ;  and  I  don't  think  it  fair  to  ask 
these  men  to  come  and  spend  a  long  evening  without  giving 
them  that  small  amount  of  indulgence.  Now  I  mean  to 
try  it- — " 

There  was  a  kind  of  murmur  of  protest  at  this.  Was 
he  going  to  ignore  such  a  solemn  thing  as  a  vote  ? 

"  But  you  may  have  it  either  of  two  ways.  Either  I 
will  resign  altogether^  and  be  free  to  act  that  way,  or  \  will. 


SHANDON  BELLS.  843j 

remain  a  member  of  the  society,  making  any  entertainments^ 
I  get  up  my  own  affair — at  my  own  expense,  I  mean — so 
that  for  them  tlie  society  will  not  be  responsible.  That 
will  take  away  the  reproach  of  beer  from  you ;  it  will  be 
my  doing  alone." 

There  was  a  little  further  grumbling ;  but  the  second 
alternative  was  eventually  chosen.  They  did  not  wish  to 
get  rid  of  Fitzgerald  altogether,  for  he  was  an  active  sort 
of  fellow,  and  he  hjid  time  and  money  at  his  disposal ;  and 
they  had  seen  how  well  he  got  on  with  the  men  and  boys 
at  these  meetings,  keeping  order  in  a  good-humored, 
hectoring  way.  Besides,  they  had  had  one  or  two  news- 
paper squabbles,  and  he  had  been  found  to  be  an  efficient 
champion  in  that  direction. 

But  when  they  got  outside,  Mary  Chetwynd  said  to 
him,  regarding  him  with  eyes  that  seemed  frightened  and 
laughing  at  the  same  time. 

*'  Oh,  Mr.  Fitzgerald,  what  have  you  done?  " 

"  Nothing  dreadful,  I  hope,"  he  said,  with  a  smile. 

"  When  you  said  '  I,'  of  course  you  meant  *  we  '  ?  " 

"Well,  then?" 

"  But  how  do  you  expect  you  and  me  to  do  all  that  by 
ourselves  ?  Think  of  the  expense.  Auntie  will  be  furious. 
She  does  not  mind  about  me ;  but  she  says  I  am  ruining 
you,  and  that  you  are  getting  no  pleasure  in  life " 

"  Didn't  I  promise  to  go  over  to*  Boat  of  Garry  in  July  ? 
and  you  and  she,  I  hope,  will  come  over  and  stay  there 
too." 

"  And  I  have  some  remorse  also,"  she  continued.  "  You 
would  never  have  raised  the  beer  question  if  I  had  not  told 

you  about  it  in  Ireland.     Then  that  little Theatre  costs 

£8  10s.  a  night,  without  any  beer.  If  I  could  pay  for 
everything,  I  should  not  mind.  Or  if  you  would  have  a 
hack  and  ride  every  day  in  the  Park,  as  Mr.  Scobell  sug- 
gests, then  auntie  would  be  more  satisfied,  and  I  should  be 
sure  you  had  some  kind  of — of " 

"But  do  I  look  so  unhappy?"  he  asked,  with  a  laugh. 
"  However,  your  mention  of  Mr.  Scobell  is  most  opportune. 
I  think  I  ought  to  plunder  Mr.  Scobell " 

"  Oh  no ;  after  the  filters " 

"  But  he  has  friends.  At  a  dinner  last  year  he  told  me 
six  of  them  at  the  table  were  worth  four  million.  Now  if 
w©  could  get  Mr.  Scobell  to  squeeze  them  a  little,  what 


344  SHANDON  BELLS. 

would  it  matter  about  the Theatre  costing  £8  lO*.  a 

night?" 

"  You  know  best,"  she  said  simply  ;  and  I  hope  we  have 
not  undertaken  too  much." 

But  indeed,  whether  he  or  she  knew,  or  whether  botli 
were  ignorant,  what  interested  him  in  that  work  down 
there,  and  what  was  a  constant  delight  to  him,  so  that  the 
various  pursuits  or  pleasure  on  which  he  might  have  spent 
the  very  liberal  income  he  enjoyed  were  not  even  to  be 
thought  of,  was  the  mere  spectacle  of  herself  in  her  relations 
Avith  these  poor  people.  The  beautiful,  quiet  serenity  of 
her  nature  seemed  to  shine  tliere,  amid  all  that  turmoil  of 
want  and  care  and  ignorance  and  crime.  Wherever  she 
went,  peace  surrounded  her.  Sickly  and  ailing  women, 
inclined  to  succumb  altogether  to  the  hard  pressure  of  fate, 
drew  strength  from  the  self-reliant  character  of  this  mere 
girl,  and  struggled  on  anew.  Many  a  one  of  them  told 
Fitzgerald  tliat  none  of  the  district  nurses  could  bring  such 
clieerfulness  into  a  house  as  she  could.  He  grew  to  think 
of  her  what  they  thouglit  of  her.  He  lieard  their  stories  of 
lier;  he  saw  lier  througli  their  eyes — tliis  king's  daughter, 
witli  the  outstretched  hands,  blessing  and  comforting 
wherever  slie  went. 

"  Willie,"  said  Mrs.  Chetwynd  to  him  one  evening  be- 
fore tlie  guests  arrived  for  the  table  d'hote^  "  why  did  you 
not  read  me  tliat  article*  in  the  Liberal  lleview  about  be- 
nevolence— about  the  reaction  of  oenevolence  on  one's  self 
— what  was  it  called  ? — '  Benevolence  as  an  Investment  ? '  " 

"  I  saw  the  article,"  said  he,  evasively. 

"Yes,  and  you  w-rote  it?" 

"Why,  how  should  you  think  that?"  said  he. 

"  Because  Mrs.  Sims  was  here  this  afternoon,  and  she 
read  it  to  me,  and  both  of  us  agreed  that  you  had  been 
describing  our  Mary." 

"  I — I  hope  you  don't  think  there  is  anything  that 
would  annoy — that  would  be  too  personal — if  Miss  Chet- 
wynd were  to  see  it?"  he  stammered. 

*'  Well,"  said  the  bright  little  old  lady,  "  considering 
that  you  give  her  all  the  virtues  of  an  angel,  with  half  a 
dozen  other  womanly  ones,  I  don't  think  she  ought  to  ob- 
ject. And  indeed,  you  know,  although  she  is  my  niece,  I 
must  admit  that  the  portrait  is  recognizable." 

So  the  time  pas'se'd;  aiid  Mary  Chetwynd  was  very 
proud  of  the  success  of  the  new  venture  that  Fitzgerald 


SIIANDON  BELLS.  345 

had  started  (though  whether  that  success  was  due  to  the 
merits  of  the  lectures  and  the  efficiency  of  her  stage-man- 
ager and  body-guard,  or  simply  to  beer,  it  would  be  un- 
necessary to  discuss),  and  there  was  no  great  difficulty  about 
funds,  after  all.  Then  Fitzgerald  and  Mrs.  Chetwynd  and 
her  niece  went  over  to  Boat  of  Garry  in  the  July  of  that 
year;  and  John  Ross  went  with  them,  being  commissioned 
to  reproduce  one  or  two  of  his  sepia  sketches  in  oils  ;  and 
they  had  a  pleasant  stay  there  until  the  end  of  August. 
Altogether  their  life,  either  there  or  here  in  London,  was 
an  uneventful  one,  full  of  cheerful  activities  and  kindli- 
nesses ;  and  there  seemed  no  reason  why  any  one  should 
wish  it  changed. 

But  accidents  happen.  One  evening,  after  they  had 
come  back,  Miss  Chetwynd  had  arranged  to  have  her  fol- 
lowing of  youths  and  lads  assemble  in  the  little  theatre  be- 
fore referred  to,  to  have  displayed  to  them,  by  means  of  a 
series  of  magic-lantern  projections  on  a  large  screen,  some 
portraits  of  great  Englishmen,  with  occasional  remarks  by 
herself.  Ordinarily,  on  such  occasions,  Fitzgerald  was  there 
at  the  marshalling  of  the  lads,  ready  with  a  good-natured 
cuff  to  preserve  manners,  if  need  be ;  but  the  truth  was 
that  as  long  as  "  the  lady  "  was  present  they  were  very 
well  behaved  indeed.  On  this  evening,  however,  there 
was  some  serious  business  elsewhere  about  a  poor  wretch 
who  had  purloined  a  book  from  one  of  the  free  libraries,  to 
buy  (as  lie  said)  a  loaf  of  bread;  and  so  Fitzgerald  did  not 
get  along  to  the  tlieatre,  until  the  lecture  or  entertainment, 
or  whatever  it  might  be  called,  was  well  on  its  way.  He 
slipped  into  a  corner  of  the  pit  (there  were  neither  stalls, 
gallery,  nor  boxes  in  this  little  theatre)  and  sat  down. 

The  lecturess  seemed  very  self-possessed  and  familiar 
with  her  audience,  talking  to  them  as  she  selected  this  or 
that  slide,  and  occasionally  coming  to  the  foot-lights  to  ad- 
dress them  directly. 

"  Now,"  she  said,  as  she  was  stoo])ing  over  the  table  to 
pick  out  the  proper  slide,  "  I  suppose  some  of  you  read 
Jones's  Journal?^'* 

This  was  a  wretched  little  local  print,  which  did  a  good 
deal  of  mischief  down  there.  Her  audience,  perhaps  think- 
ing that  the  portrait  of  the  great  Mr.  Jones  was  about  to 
appear  on  the  screen,  stamped  their  feet  a  bit.  On  that 
she  rose  erect,  and  faced  them  w^ith  some  astonishment. 

"  Oh  !  "  she  said,  "  is  that  the  kind  of  paper  you  ad- 


346  SHANDON  BELLS. 

mire  ?  I  hope  not.  I  hope  not,  indeed !  Perhaps  some 
of  you  think  that  when  Mr.  Jones  is  denouncing  the  Gov- 
ernment, and  saying  they  have  done  this,  that,  and  the 
otlier  thing,  he  could  do  it  better  liimself  ?  Would  you 
like  to  see  him  try  ?  Is  he  likely  to  know  more  about  gov- 
erning a  country — is  he  likely  to  be  more  honest — than 
men  who  have  been  educated  all  their  lives  for  it,  many  of 
them  very  rich  men,  who,  if  they  had  chosen,  might  have 
spent  all  their  time  in  amusing  themselves  with  horse-races 
or  yachts,  but  who,  instead,  go  through  an  amount  of  labor 
and  drudgery  that  the  hardest-worked  among  you  don't 
know  anything  about,  only  to  find  themselves  called  swin- 
dlers and  pickpockets  by  gentlemen  like  Mr.  Jones  ?  Well, 
now,  I  know  something  that  will  enable  -^ow  to  judge  of 
Mr.  Joues.  I  know  that  he  has  been  twice  before  the  mag- 
istrate for  drunkenness,  and  was  fined  each  time ;  and  I 
know  there  was  an  execution  in  his  office  not  very  long  ago ; 
and  I  put  it  to  you  whether  a  man  who  manages  his  own 
affairs  like  that  would  be  likely  to  be  able  to  manage  the 
affairs  of  the  country  ?  " 

This  argument,  though  somewhat  crude,  and  even  verg- 
ing upon  libel,  was,  at  all  events,  easily  understood. 

"  No !  no  !'*  was  the  general  response. 

"Well,  now,  I  am  going  to  put  before  you  the  portrait 
of  a  great  Conservative  statesman,  a  most  able  and  distin- 
guished man.  Perhaps  I  am  not  a  Conservative  myself; 
but  that  is  neither  here  nor  there ;  I  want  you  to  believe 
that  the  men  who  govern  England  on  both  sides  in  politics 
are  trying  to  do  their  best ;  and  that  the  man  who  tries  to 
stir  up  people  to  lawlessness  and  discontent  is  doing  his 
worst,  and  making  nothing  but  mischief.  Don't  you 
believe  that  the  rich  have  stolen  the  money  they  have  ;  in 
most  cases  it  has  been  brought  together  by  their  fathers  and 
grandfathers  being  sober,  industrious,  and  able  men ;  and 
when  these  people  try  to  make  good  laws  you  ought  to  be 
glad  of  it,  instead  of  howling  at  them  as  if  they  were 
tyrants.  It  is  the  interest  of  everybody  to  preserve  law  and 
order.  Why,  if  it  was  not  for  law  and  order,  how  could 
your  mothers  and  sisters  go  along  AVhitechapel  Road  on  a 
Saturday  night,  looking  at  the  shop^,  and  buying  things  for 
the  Sunday  dinner  ?  It  is  the  law  that  protects  them  from 
being  pushed  down  and  their  money  taken  from  them.  And 
60  far  from  regarding  the  police  as  your  natural  enemies,  or 
the  eaemies  of  anybody,  you  ought  to  think  of  what  Stepney 


SHANDON  BELLS.  847 

or  Whitechapel  would  be  without  them,  and  you  ought  to 
be  precious  glad  to  lend  them  a  helping  hand  when  you  see 
a  thief  bolting,  or  when  you  see  a  band  of  roughs  coming 
along  the  pavement,  hustling  the  women  off  and  annoying 
peaceable  people." 

She  put  the  selected  slide  into  the  magic  lantern  ;  the 
man  in  the  *'  wings  "  lowered  the  gas  of  the  footlights,  and 
when  the  large,  visionary,  colored  figure  of  this  Conserva- 
tive statesman  appeared  on  the  screen,  it  was  greeted 
(despite  all  the  tirades  of  Joneses  Journal)  with  a  murmur 
of  approval.  But  just  at  this  moment  something  else  hap- 
pened. One  amongst  the  audience  whose  eyes  had  wan- 
dered away  from  the  large  circle  of  light  on  the  screen  had 
noticed  a  flickering  of  another  sort  of  light  along  the  edge 
of  a  portion  of  the  curtain  ;  and  thoughtlessly  he  called  out 
"  Fire  !"  There  was  an  instant  of  dead  silence,  every  one 
looking  all  around  ;  and  then,  as  the  red  light  up  there  at- 
tracted their  eyes,  there  was  a  universal  rush  and  clamor. 
Fitzgerald  jumped  to  his  feet  and  called  to  them  to  sit 
down  ;  but  he  might  as  well  have  called  to  the  sea.  There 
were  no  shrieks  or  screams,  for  there  were  no  women  pres- 
ent ;  but  a  wild  struggle  to  reach  the  doors,  and  a  conse- 
quent wedging  up  of  the  excited  crowd.  They  could  not 
squeeze  through.  Then  the  black  mass — or  a  great  portion 
of  it — seemed  to  turn;  frightened  faces  looked  here,  there, 
everywhere;  then  the  stage  was  charged.  Fitzgerald 
caught  the  first  one  that  made  by  him,  and  jammed  him 
down  on  to  the  form. 

"  Sit  down,  you  fool ;  there  is  no  danger  !" 

But  he  might  as  well  have  tried  to  put  his  hands  on  a 
pack  of  wolves.  They  swarmed  up  and  over  on  the  stage ; 
seeing  which,  Fitzgerald  leaped  up  there  too  ;  shoved  them 
aside,  and  made  for  the  spot  where  Miss  Chetwynd  was 
standing,  her  face  somewhat  aghast.  She  was  not  regard- 
ing the  flames  overhead ;  she  was  looking  at  the  rushing 
crowd  that  was  now  hurrying  wildly  toward  the  narrow 
passage  leading  from  behind  the  stage.  He  caught  her 
hand — or  rather  it  was  her  wrist — and  held  it  tight. 

"Do  not  be  afraid,"  said  he,  glancing  up  at  the  smoul- 
dering curtain,  and  then  at  the  disappearing  people.  "  There 
is  no  danger.     They  will  all  get  out." 

"  I  am  not  afraid,  so  long  as  you  are  by  me,"  she  said,  in 
a  rather  proud  kind  of  way. 

He  turned  and  looked  at  her  eyes  ;  and  her  eyes  met  his. 


348  SHANDON  BELLS, 

"For  alwnys,  then?" 

Sho  did  not  speak ;  but  she  placed  her  hand  over  liis 
hand  that  held  her  wrist;  and  so  they  remained,  waiting  for 
the  wild  surging  mass  to  get  free  away,  while  the  red  light 
overhead  grew  more  distinct. 

It  was  a  strange  situation  ;  but  he  seemed  to  have  no 
fear.  He  remembered  afterward  that  he  was  trying  to  cal- 
culate how  many  more  seconds  it  would  take  for  the  last  of 
the  crowd  to  get  through ;  also  wondering  when  the  fire- 
men would  arrive,  and  whether  the  theatre  had  been  left 
altogether  without  attendants ;  and  at  the  same  time  watch- 
ing quite  calmly  the  progress  of  the  flames.  They  did  not 
proceed  rapidly.  It  was  some  little  time  before  the  wood- 
work caught  fire  anywhere;  for  at  first  it  slowly  blackened 
and  frizzled,  as  it  were ;  then  a  pale  thin  blue  fire  became 
visible  here  and  there  along  its  surface;  ihen  a  quicker  glow 
of  crimson  gleamed  up. 

"Shall  we  go  now?"  he  said — for  the  loud  cries  for 
Dick  and  Harry  and  Jack  and  Bill  had  grown  fainter  and 
fainter. 

"  When  you  please,"  said  she,  with  firm  lips. 

There  was  no  trouble  or  danger  about  the  matter.  Just 
as  they  were  leaving,  a  loud  splash  and  hissing  was  heard 
overhead  and  a  shower  of  heavy  drops  of  water  came  over 
the  stage.  They  made  their  way  along  the  "  wings  "  and 
out  by  the  stage-door,  and  found  a  large  crowd  assembled 
in  the  street,  kept  back  from  the  fire-engines  by  the  police. 
In  ten  or  twelve  minutes  the  whole  affair  was  over,  and  it 
only  remained  for  Fitzgerald  to  get  hold  of  the  gas-man 
from  among  the  crowd  (the  rascal  had  been  among  the  first 
to  bolt)  to  have  the  gas  turned  off,  so  that  there  should  be 
no  explosion ;  while,  by  the  light  of  some  candles,  and  with 
the  aid  of  a  few  of  the  boys,  he  got  the  magic-lantern  ap- 
paratus collected  and  carried  to  a  four-wheeled  cab  outside, 
m  which  Mary  Chetwynd  was  awaiting  him. 

When  at  last  they  had  driven  away  from  the  dense 
crowd  that  still  lingered  about  the  place  there  was  a  better 
chance  for  speaking ;  but  silence  seemed  to  be  enough.  At 
length  she  said  : — 

"You  once  offered  me  Boat  of  Garry.  And  now  you 
give  your  life  to  me.     W^hat  next  ?  " 

"It  will  become  worth  something  when  you  take  it,"  bo 
answered. 


SHANDON  BELLS,  349 

CHAPTER  XXXII. 

IK  A   GALLERY. 

And  now  we  must  let  a  few  years  go  by,  and  come  to  a 
certain  private  view  day  at  the  Hanover  Gallery,  Hanover 
Square.  This  gallery,  which  was  intended  to  be  an  ad- 
junct rather  than  a  rival  to  the  Royal  Academy,  had  been 
opened  for  the  first  time  the  year  before,  and  had  pro- 
voked a  good  deal  of  animadversion,  favorable  and  other- 
wise. For  while  some  declared  (with  more  insistence  than 
was  at  all  necessary)  that  its  chief  characteristic  was  an 
affected  imitation  of  the  manner  of  the  early  Florentines, 
but  with  the  beauty  and  light  and  gladness  of  the  old 
painters  replaced  by  a  sickly  languor  and  distortion  and 
decay;  that  the  decorative  character  of  the  classical  designs 
in  nowise  served  as  a  cloak  for  obvious  ignorance  of  anat- 
omy and  consequent  bad  drawing  of  the  human  form;  and 
.that  the  landscapes  were  less  remarkable  for  a  reverential 
study  of  nature  than  for  an  impertinent  audacity,  there 
were  others  who  maintained  (with  a  touch  of  personal  in- 
jury in  the  tone  of  their  remonstrances)  that  this  Hanover 
Gallery  collection  was  a  welcome  relief  from  the  inanity 
of  the  common  run  of  exhibitions:  that  at  all  events  it 
drove  people  to  think;  that  a  seeking  after  the  highest  in 
art,  with  whatever  shortcomings,  was  better  than  the  com- 
placency of  mediocrity;  that,  in  short,  anything  was  desir- 
able that  could  help  to  get  rid  of  the  simpering  curate  sort 
of  stuff  that  had  for  so  long  told  its  commonplace  and  silly 
little  stories  on  the  walls  of  British  galleries.  It  needs 
only  be  added  here  that  among  the  most  vehement  of  the 
admirers  of  this  new  institution  was  John  Ross.  Whether 
dissatisfaction  with  the  Royal  Academy's  continued  neg- 
lect of  him  may  have  had  anything  to  do  with  this  feeling 
it  is  unnecessary  to  inquire,  for  human  motives  are  mixed 
things;  but  at  all  events  his  championship  of  the  new  gal- 
lery was  so  uncompromising  that  Mrs.  Ohetwynd,  who  was 
always  on  the  lookout  to  do  little  kindnesses  in  this  way, 
contrived  a  meeting  between  Sir  Cyril  Smith,  who  was 
the  director  of  the  place,  and  the  Scotch  artist,  which  had, 
as  it  turned  out,  sufficiently  important  results  for  one  of 
them. 


850  SHANDON  BELLS. 

So  on  this  summer-like  day  in  spring  there  was  a  large 
and  fashionable  assemblage  circulatiEg  through  the  rooms, 
or  congregated  in  groups  here  and  there,  chatting,  or  re- 
garding their  neighbors'  costumes,  which,  among  the  young 
maidens  at  least,  tended  rather  to  sadness  of  hue  and 
quaintness  of  design.  But  there  was  one  group  there  of 
which  a  tall,  bright-eyed  young  lady  was  a  conspicuous 
member;  and  certainly  her  gown,  if  there  was  a  sugges- 
tion of  mediasvalism  about  the  shape  of  it,  was  not  lacking 
in  boldness  and  richness  of  color.  It  was  a  velvet  gown, 
of  the  color  of  the  very  darkest  sort  of  wall-flower — a  deep 
ruddy  purple;  and  it  was  trimmed  with  lace,  or  what  ap- 
peared to  be  lace,  of  a  dusky  yellow — not  the  yellow  of 
primroses,  but  rather  of  daffodils.  It  was  more  the  cos- 
tume of  a  young  matron  than  of  a  girl;  but,  indeed,  when 
you  looked  at  this  person,  it  was  not  her  dress  that  first 
attracted  notice,  but  the  grace  and  self-possession  of  her 
bearing,  and  the  bright,  frank  laugh  of  her  eyes. 

A  tall,  elderly,  handsome  man  made  his  way  through 
the  crowd  to  her. 

**My  dear  child,"  said  he,  taking  her  hand,  *'I  have- 
been  hunting  for  you  everywhere.     I  was  told  you  had 
come.     And  how  well  you  are  looking!    And  your  dress, 
too — they  say  it  is  the  prettiest  in  the  room.     Very  pretty 
-.—very  pretty!" 

"But  you  need  not  praise  me  for  it.  Sir  Cyril,"  said  she, 
**nor  my  dress-maker  either.  My  husband  chose  the 
coloi's.  Wae  not  that  obedient  of  me?  I  told  him  I  dressed 
only  to  please  him,  and  that  he  might  as  well  choose  what 
colors  he  liked  best.     Was  not  that  sweet  of  me?" 

"Ah!"  said  he,  "young  wives  are  always  like  that,  at 
lirst— " 

"  Young  wives,  indeed!  And  my  boy  will  be  four  years 
old  next  June!" 

"  And  your  boy  will  have  very  little  to  thank  you  for  if 
you  go  catching  another  fever,  and  have  to  winter  in  Italy, 
leaving  the  poor  little  fellow  at  home.  Where  is  your 
husband?" 

"Oh,  he's  away  with  John  Ross  somewhere — fighting, 
no  doubt.  They're  always  fighting  now — ever  since  we 
came  back  from  Italy." 

"  Have  you  been  round  the  rooms  yet?"  he  asked,  glanc- 
ing at  the  little  group  of  friends  from  whom  he  had 
slightly  separated  her.     She  forthwith  introduced  him. 


SHANDON  BELLS.  351 

^'  No,"  she  said.  *'  It  is  a  little  too  bewildering  yet— to 
me  at  least.  All  one's  friends  seem  to  be  here;  and  it  is 
so  difficult  to  remember  all  you  want  to  say  at  the  moment 
that  one  has  no  time  for  the  pictures.  It  is  more  exciting 
than  sitting  on  a  terrace  at  Sorrento,  or  in  a  veranda  at 
Capri,  watching  the  tourists  climbing  up  the  steps  on  the 
donkeys.  We  went  to  Ischia  after  you  left  us.  Now 
don't  stop  talking  to  me.  Sir  Cyril,  for  you  Jiave  all  your 
friends  to  receive — " 

**And  the  whole  day  to  do  it  in,"  said  he,  lightly. 
*'No;  but  I  am  coming  back  to  you.  You  must  not  go 
away  anywhere  for  lunch.  I  will  come  for  you  at  one. 
Mind  you  have  got  hold  of  your  husband  and  Mr.  Koss; 
there  is  something  very  nice  and  quiet  prepared  in  a  cor- 
ner— an  invalid's  luncheon,  you  know.  Now  go  and  get 
a  seat;  don't  stand  about  all  day;  but  indeed  I  never  saw 
you  looking  better  in  my  life." 

He  was  going  away,  when  he  suddenly  turned. 

**  Bless  my  soul!"  he  exclaimed — '*I  was  almost  forget- 
ting to  ask  how  your  aunt  is — better,  I  hope?" 

**0h,  I  think  so.  I  think  she  is  almost  quite  better. 
But  she  likes  perfect  rest,  and  seems  disinclined  for  the 
trouble  of  going  out;  she  says  she  won't  go  with  us  to  Boat 
of  Garry  this  year." 

"  But  she  is  not  ailing  now?" 

'*  Oh  no,  scarcely  at  all;  the  warm  weather  suits  her, 
and  all  she  suffers  from  now,  she  says,  is  an  incurable 
laziness." 

*'One  o'clock,  then,  mind." 

Almost  immediately  after  Fitzgerald  came  hurrying 
along. 

*^  Have  you  heard?  -Has  any  one  told  you?"  he  said, 
eagerly. 

*^I  have  heard  nothing  in  particular,"  she  said — ^'but 
why  did  you  put  on  that  shabby  old  shooting-coat?"  Every 
one  else  has  a  frock-coat  and  gloves.  Where  are  your 
gloves?    This  isn't  Capri." 

**  Every  one  says  that  Eoss's  pictures  are  the  feature  of 
the  exhibition,"  he  said,  in  the  same  rapid  way,  not  in  the 
least  minding  her  remarks  about  his  clothes.  ^'  They  have 
given  them  the  place  of  honor  at  the  head  of  the  next 
room — all  five  in  a  row.  Come  along  and  see  them.  Gif- 
ford — "  Here  he  turned  to  Mr.  Gilford,  who,  with  his 
wife,  a  tall  and  stately  dame,  was  now  examining  some  of 


353  SHAN  DON  BELLS. 

the  pictures  close  by — "  Gifford,  come  and  sec  some  pic- 
tures in  the  next  room.  I  told  you  they  would  make  their 
mark." 

*' Your  friend  Ross's,  I  suppose?"  s 

**Yes.  Come  and  judge  for  yourself.  Mind  you,  I 
mean  to  praise  them,  friend  or  no  friend;  so  if  you  are 
afraid  of  the  reputation  of  the  Liberal  Revieiv,  you'll  have 
to  get  somebody  else.  Or  we  will  appeal  to  an  impartial 
authority,  if  you  like." 

No  doubt  Mr.  Gifford,  as  the  little  party  together  made 
their  way  up  to  the  head  of  the  next  room,  considered 
that  he  himself  was  quite  sufficient  of  an  impartial  au- 
thority; and,  as  it  turned  out,  he  was  much  struck  by  the 
series  of  landscapes.  Or,  rather,  there  was  only  one  land- 
scape, treated  under  five  different  atmospheric  conditions. 
The  subject  was  the  stretch  of  meadow,  water,  hill,  and 
sky  visible  from  the  window  of  the  dining-room  at  Boat 
of  Garry;  the  first  showing  the  calm,  clear  dawn  aiising 
in  the  east,  the  world  being  quite  still  and  silent  and  life- 
less; in  the  second  was  all  the  variety  of  a  windy  summer 
day — masses  of  white  cloud  and  shadow,  the  trees  blowing, 
the  work  in  the  fields  going  on,  and  over  at  the  horizon 
an  ominous  rising  of  purple;  then,  in  number  three,  a 
desolation  of  rain,  everything  gray  and  blurred  and  hope- 
less; number  four  showed  the  afternoon  clearing  up  some- 
what, with  a  golden  mist  beginning  to  tell  as  the  sunlight 
got  through  the  moisture;  and  finally,  the  peace  of  a  clear 
moonlight  night. 

"A  most  excellent  idea!"  exclaimed  Mr.  Gifford,  at 
once.  **Why,  that  is  how  one  becomes  familiar  with  a 
place!  Why  has  no  one  done  that  before?  No  one  wants 
any  more  variety  than  that — indeed,  it  shows  all  the  more 
what  skill  the  artist  has  when  he  can  do  without  fresh 
materials.  My  dear  fellow,  you  may  praise  those  as  much 
as  ever  you  like.  They  are  the  best  things  I  have  seen  in 
the  exhibition  yet,  except  your  wife's  portrait.  Praise 
them  as  you  like;   I  sha'n't  interfere  with  you." 

'^But,  you  know,"  Fitzgerald  said,  "there  will  be  a 
scrimmage  among  the  critics,  just  as  there  was  last  year. 
Now  don't  let  the  Liberal  Review  in  for  anything  rash. 
I'll  tell  you  what  I'll  do;  suppose  we  appeal;  suppose  we 
take  the  opinion  of  a  thoroughly  skilled  artist — " 

"  Not  a  bit.  On  that  theory  you  would  have  me  allow 
poets  to  review  other  pcets'  poems,  and  novel-writers  to 


SHANDON  BELLS,  353 

review  other  people's  novels,  and  so  on.  Would  tliat  be 
fair?  We  have  set  our  faces  against  it  since  ever  the  Lil- 
eral  Review  was  started/' 

"  And  yet  it  seems  to  me  the  only  opinion  worth  hav- 
ing," Fitzgerald  ventured  to  say,  "  if  you  can  make  sure 
it  is  without  bias.  Who  can  decide  anything  about  any- 
art  who  has  not  shown  that  he  has  mastered  its  techni- 
calities? Surely  the  valuable  opinion  is  that  of  a  man 
who  knows  the  art;  who  is  himself  a  proficient;  and  who 
is  so  far  above  everybody  else  that  jealousy  or  envy  is  out 
of  the  question — " 

'*  And  do  you  expect  the  Libei'ol  Review  to  pay  men 
like  that?" 

"  Oh,  I  was  not  talking  about  writing  at  all,"  Fitzgerald 
said,  with  a  laugh.  **  I  was  talking  about  these  pictures. 
Now  I  would  take  the  opinion  of  Sydenham  before  any 
other.  He  is  far  beyond  rivalry;  he  can  paint  landscape 
just  as  well  as  portraits,  and  nobody  can  come  near  him 
in  cither." 

^^Ile  is  too  good-natured;  he  finds  good  in  every- 
thing," Mr.  GiSord  objected.  **I  have  walked  round 
the  Academy  with  Sydenham.  Not  a  word  of  objection 
anywhere;  always  the  best  points  picked  out;  the  diffi- 
culties explained  to  you;  always  praise,  especially  if  the 
picture  is  by  one  of  the  younger  men;  always  encourage- 
ment— very  good-natured,  but  not  criticism.  No;  I 
propose  that  if  there  is  to  be  any  appeal  it  will  be  to  your 
wife,  for  she  knows  the  place.  Mrs.  Fitzgerald,  we  want 
your  opinion  of  Mr.  Ross's  landscapes." 

'*  Oh,  don't  ask  me,"  said  the  tall  young  lady  in  the 
wall-fiower  and  daifodil  gown;  **  I  want  to  buy  them, 
and  can't  afford  it." 

""  Well,  that  is  an  honest  criticism,"  Mr.  Gifford  said. 
"I  think,  Fitzgerald,  you  may  let  the  Liberal  Review 
speak  well  of  the  Boat  of  Garry  studies.  But  where  is 
Ross  himself?" 

^' He  won't  come  into  this  room.  He  says  it  is  like 
having  himself  put  into  a  frame,  and  people  examining 
him  with  a  microscope." 

But  now  they  had  to  set  to  work  to  go  through  the  gal- 
leries systematically  and  seriously,  though  that  was  often 
interrupted  by  the  arrival  of  a  fresh  batch  of  friends  who 
were  all  of  them  anxious  to  see  the  portrait  of  Mary  Ohet- 
wynd  (as  some  of  them  still  called  her)  which  had  been 


354  SHANDON  BELLS. 

painted  by  Mr.  Sydenham,  and  which  was  supposed  to  be 
the  chief  ornament  of  one  of  the  rooms.  They  were 
joined  by  Mr.  Eoss,  moreover,  whose  remarks,  if  some- 
what disjointed  and  dogmatic,  were  generally  to  the 
point. 

"That  fellow?"  he  said,  regarding  the  work  of  an  artist 
who  had  obviously  spent  an  enormous  amount  of  care  in 
constructing  an  allegory  (buc  the  conundrum  was  difficult 
of  solution  until  you  turned  to  the  title  in  the  catalogue). 
**  That  fellow?  Look  at  the  thrawn  necks;  look  at  the 
sham  sentiment!  That  fellow?  he  would  get  painted  tin 
flowers  to  put  on  his  mother's  grave.  There,"  said  he, 
turning  to  the  full-length  portrait  of  Fitzgerald's  wife 
that  hung  in  the  middle  of  the  room;  "look  at  that  now. 
That  is  painted  by  a  man  who  knows  that  it  is  his  busi- 
ness to  paint,  and  no  to  bother  his  head  with  the  twelfth 
century  or  the  fifteenth  century  or  any  other.  Long  ago 
he  shook  oif  the  corpse-cloths;  you  canna  bind  a  giant  in 
spider-webs.  There's  just  nothing  that  man  cannot 
paint:  put  it  before  him — a  young  lady's  face,  a  bit  of 
moorland,  a  collie  dog — no  matter  what  it  is — put  it 
before  him,  and  then  you  find  the  master-hand  getting  it 
on  to  the  canvas  with  a  power  and  a  carelessness  that  has 
grown  out  o'  tlie  anxiety  and  hard  work  of  a  lifetime — 
the  details  that  tell  ^V^,  the  details  tliat  are  of  no  use  out. 
Look  at  that  fan  for  color,  now — the  sharp  line  in  the 
dusk  of  the  dress.  Look  at  the  eyes:  they're  no  saying 
"  What  do  ye  think  of  me?  Am  1  looking  my  best?  J^ 
I  standing  right?"  They're  saying  "  Heie  I  am.  I  Im 
in  the  world  as  well  as  you.  I  could  speak  to  you  if  I 
liked."  People  think  he  is  careless;  I  say  that  he  is  care- 
less about  what  is  non-essential;  but  many  a  hard  strug- 
gle it  took  him  to  find  out  tliat.  Would  they  like  him  to 
labor  the  thing,  so  they  could  count  the  pins  in  the  pin- 
cushion— " 

"My  dear  Mrs.  Fitzgerald,"  said  a  voice  behind  them, 
'^  I  must  really  beg  and  entreat  of  you  to  come  away." 

They  turned  and  found  before  them  Mr.  Sydenham 
himself,  and  also  his  pretty  wife,  whom  Fitzgerald  had  in 
bygone  days  endeavored  to  bribe  with  sandwiches. 

"Is  it  fair?"  said  he.  "Is  it  the  act  of  a  Christian 
woman,  to  stand  opposite  my  paint,  and  show  people  the 
difference?  And  you  just  back  from  Italy,  too,  with  the 
Neapolitan  sun  on  your  cheeks  I" 


SHANDON  BELLS.  855 

*'I  was  listening  to  a  lecture,  Mr.  Sydenham/'  said  she. 
*'  Mr.  Ross  was  delivering  a  lecture;  and  you  would  have 
been  pleased  if  you  had  heard." 

"Is  it  to  be  'claw  me,  and  Fll  claw  thee,'  then?"  said 
the  famous  Academician,  with  a  good-natured  smile. 
*'  There's  nothing  in  these  rooms  to  beat  your  fine  Irish 
sketches,  Mr.  Ross." 

*'  It's  no  a  claw  I  want  from  ye,  sir,"  said  John  Ross, 
grimly.  *'  It's  a  *  scratch,'  when  some  decent  fellow  some 
day  puts  me  up  for  an  Associate.  It  is  what  everybody 
looks  for,  I  suppose;  though  I  jalouse  there'll  be  more  gray 
nor  red  in  my  beard  by  that  time." 

*'You  shall  have  my  'scratch'  and  welcome;  and  I 
hope  long  before  theu,"  said  the  Academician;  and  then 
again  he  begged  Mrs.  Fitzgerald  to  come  away  from  the 
neighborhood  of  her  portrait,  which  she  was  not  loath  to 
do,  for  she  was  very  hungry,  she  said,  and  one  o'clock  had 
arrived. 

Presently  Sir  Cyril  Smith  appeared  and  carried  the 
party  off  in  a  body,  John  Ross  alone  seeming  shy  or  re- 
luctant. But  he  was  very  soon  put  into  a  pleasant  humor 
by  his  neighbor  at  table,  who  happened  to  be  Mrs.  Syden- 
ham, who  said  she  imagined  he  must  be  the  friend  on 
whose  behalf  Fitzgerald  had  endeavored  to  bribe  her  with 
sandwiches. 

''That  was  no  use,"  said  he,  bluntly. 

"  No,  I  should  think  not,"  said  this  pretty  woman, 
with  a  charming  smile.  "I  should  think  not,  indeed. 
Not  sandwiches.  At  my  time  of  life  one  knows  better 
than  to  eat  sandwiches — " 

"I  wasna  thinking  of  that,  mum,"  said  Ross;  "I  was 
thinking  your  husband  ought  not  to  be  bothered  with 
any  such  things.  A  man  that  can  paint  as  he  can  paint 
should  have  nothing  in  the  world  to  interfere  with  his 
time  or  attention;  if  he  wastes  a  day,  the  country  loses 
just  so  much — " 

"Oh,  but  he  takes  great  interest  in  the  younger  men. 
And  I  am  very  glad  he  thinks  so  highly  of  your  pictures 
— it  was  not  to  you  alone  he  said  that;  and — and,  of 
course,  you  must  be  proud  of  the  place  they  have  got — " 

"Oh,  ay,"  he  said,  "the  tod  will  find  a  hole  some- 
where— " 

"  I  beg  your  pardon!" 

But  as  he  did  not  answer — or  did  not  hear — she  went 


356  SHANDON  BELLS, 

on  to  say  that  she  understood  he  was  again  going  to  Ire- 
land with  the  Fitzgeralds;  and  they  were  going  early  this 
year,  were  they  not?  and  had  he  been  allowed  to  see  any- 
thing of  the  volume  of  poems — or  poetical  dramas — that 
Mr.  Fitzgerald  was  understood  to  have  finished  in  Italy, 
and  that  was  now  on  the  eve  of  publication?  John  Ross 
answered  as  best  he  could;  but  he  was  getting  rather  dis- 
contented, for  there  was  nothing  to  drink  at  this  needlessly 
sumptuous  repast  but  thin,  cold  wine.  At  last,  however, 
he  said  to  the  servant,  who  was  in  vain  tempting  him  with 
various  decanters, 

"  I  say,  my  man,  could  you  get  me  a  wee  droppie  o' 
whiskey?" 

**Yes,  sir;  certainly,  sir." 

And  after  that  Mr.  Ross  proved  a  far  more  pleasant 
companion;  and  gave  Mrs.  Sydenham  such  a  picture  of 
the  life  at  Boat  of  Garry,  and  such  gi-aphic  accounts  of 
the  exploits  of  himself  and  his  friends  there,  that  she  said 
that  nothing  but  his  description  of  the  demon  steam- 
yacht  deterred  her  from  begging  for  an  invitation  there 
and  then. 

After  luncheon  there  was  a  movement  to  return  to  the 
pictures,  and  Fitzgerald  seized  the  opportunity  to  bid 
them  good-day. 

"Where  are  you  off  to  now?"  his  wife  asked. 

"I  want  to  overhaul  one  or  two  of  the  libraries,  if 
there's  time  before  dinner." 

"  Let  me  go  with  you." 

'^In  that  dress?  You  would  be  a  pretty  spectacle  in 
Shoreditch." 

'^I  could  remain  in  the  hansom." 

'^Get  away  with  you!  You  are  off  duty;  you  are  a 
helpless  invalid,  though  you  don't  look  it.  Stay  with 
Mrs.  Sydenham  and  see -your  friends.  My  shooting-coat 
isn't  swell  enough  for  that." 

*'  Very  well,"  she  said.      "  When  shall  you  be  home?" 

"  At  a  quarter  to  seven,  whatever  happens.  I  left  word 
there  would  be  an  enormous  toMe  d'hote;  .^o  you  can  seize 
hold  of  all  the  nice  people.  Don't  forget  John  Ross; 
don't  lose  sight  of  him.  We  will  make  John  Ross  the 
occasion;  and  we  will  get  him  to  make  a  speech." 

"You  will  do  nothing  of  the  kind;  I  won't  have  any- 
body tortured.     Shall  I  ask  the  Giffords?" 

"  Yes." 


SHANDON  BELLS.  357 

'•'  And  the  Sydenhams?" 

*'  If  they  have  not  had  enongh  of  us  to-day  alread3\ 
Ask  anybody  you  like  who  happens  to  be  disengaged.  It 
is  John  Ross's  day,  let  him  have  a  triumph  in  the  even- 
ing." 

And  in  a  couple  of  minutes  thereafter  he  was  in  a  han- 
som, making  for  Commercial  Road  East,  and  striving  to 
extract  a  few  items  of  intelligence  from  that  morning's 
newspaper,  whicli  he  had  not  before  had  time  to  glance 
over. 


CHAPTER  XXXIII. 

AT   IJSTISHEEN^. 


An"D  again  we  will  let  a  few  m*ore  years  go  by,  bringing 
us  to  quite  the  other  day,  in  fact.  At  the  window  of  a 
room  in  the  Imperial  Hotel  at  Inisheen  a  small  boy,  ap- 
parently about  eight  or  nine,  is  standing,  regarding  the 
carriage  and  pair  below,  which  are  being  led  olf  to  the 
stable-yard.  He  is  a  good-looking  little  lad,  with  large, 
soft,  pensive  eyes,  a  square  forehead,  and  curly  hair — u 
healthy-looking  little  chap,  too,  though  one  foot  is  off  the 
ground,  and  he  is  supporting  himself  with  a  stick.  To 
him  enters  his  father. 

'*  Well,  Master  Frank,  shall  you  be  able  to  amuse  your- 
self while  I  go  out  for  a  stroll?  You  see  what  comes  of 
climbing  after  wood-pigeons'  nests." 

"  A  good  Job,  too,"  remarked  the  small  boy,  with  com- 
placency. 

*MVhat  is?  spraining  your  ankle?" 

*^  Yes.  You  wouldn't  have  brought  me  with  you  if  it 
hadn't  been  for  that,  papa.  Mamma  said  you  were  very 
busy,  and  I  wasn't  to  interfere  with  you.  I  was  to  take 
great  care  not  to  be  a  trouble  to  you,  she  said,  for  you 
liked  to  be  alone  when  you  were  finishing  a  book,  and  I 
wasn't  to  mind  if  you  left  me  by  myself.  And  I  don't 
mind  a  bit." 

He  glanced  round  the  room.  "  And  is  this  really  the 
inn  that  your  papa  kept?" 

"  Yes,  it  is;  perhaps  you  don't  think  much  of  it?" 


858  SHANDON  BELLS. 

*'  Well,"  said  the  small  boy,  with  delicacy,  not  wishing 
to  wound  his  father's  feelings,  *'  ifc  isn't  very  swell,  is  it?" 

^'  When  I  was  a  boy,  my  lad,  it  was  the  only  hotel  in 
Inisheen,  and  it  was  regarded  as  a  place  of  imjDortance. 
See,  here  are  your  books.  You'd  better  sit  down  for  a 
while  and  give  your  foot  a  rest." 

**  I  like  the  stories  you  tell»  better  than  those  in  the 
books,"  remarked  Master  Frank,  regarding  the  volumes 
with  anything  but  favor,  "  only  mamma  says  I  ought 
never  to  believe  them." 

"Which,  though?" 

*^  The  stories  you  tell.  Mamma  says  you  are  alwa3^s 
making  a  fool  of  people.  Was  it  true,  papa,  about  the 
man  who  went  to  India?" 

'^  Really  there  are  so  many  people  go  to  India  that  I 
have  forgotten." 

"  But  the  man  who  went  out  to  India,  and  he  pre- 
tended to  have  a  sunstroke;  and  then,  when  he  came 
back,  he  was  allowed  to  do  anything  he  liked,  for  his 
friends  were  afraid  of  bringing  it  on  again,  and  the  police 
always  let  him  off  because  he  had  been  mad;  and  he  lived 
such  a  merry  life.     Was  that  true,  papa?" 

**  Well,  if  it  had  not  happened,  how  would  people  have 
known  anything  about  it?"  was  the  evasive  reply. 
"Now  take  a  book;  and  put  your  foot  up  on  a  chair, 
while  I  go  and  see  if  there's  anj'body  in  the  place  I  know 
now.  I  don't  suppose  there  will  be,  since  Andy  the  Hop- 
per— do  you  remember  the  sketch  of  him  that  Mr.  Ross 
made  for  you  one  night?" 

"Oh  yes,  papa." 

'*  Well,  he  is  away  at  Tramore  now,  they  say;  and  I 
doubt  whether  there  is  a  human  being  I  know  now  in  the 
town." 

And  yet  when  he  went  out  into  the  sunlight  this  older 
part  of  Inisheen  did  not  seem  to  have  changed  much  dur- 
ing the  last  seven  years.  If  there  was  any  difference,  it 
lay  rather  between  the  Inisheen  that  he  was  accustomed 
to  dream  about  and  this  present,  every-day,  rather  com- 
monplace Inisheen.  This  was  the  second  time  he  had 
visited  the  little  town  since  finally  he  had  left  it  for  Lon- 
don, and  on  each  occasion  the  same  rectification  had  to  be 
made.  Yes,  there  were  the  quiet,  respectable-looking 
houses,  and  the  shops,  and  the  Town-hall;  the  wharves 
and  quays,  with  tar-barrels  and  coals;  the  barks  and  brig- 


SHANDON  BELLS.  859 

antines  stranded  on  the  mud;  and  the  broad  waters  of  the 
bay;  and  the  sunny  green  of  the  hills  beyond.  To  get  a 
wider  view  he  climbed  up  the  face  of  the  steep  slope  on 
which  the  town  is  partly  built;  there  were  cottages  here 
and  there  apparently  clinging  hazardously  to  the  ascent; 
fragments  of  old  ruins  cropping  up;  cocks  and  hens  flut- 
tering among  the  dust  or'hiding  among  the  nettles;  chil- 
dren clambering  over  walls,  topped  Avith  marjoram;  and 
an  old  gentleman,  in  a  jacket  without  sleeves,  fast  asleep 
in  a  damp  and  shady  angle  of  a  garden-wall  which  Avas 
profuse  with  moss  and  hart's-tongue  fern.  Then  he  came 
to  the  enclosures  round  the  houses  of  the  richer  people  on 
the  summit  of  the  hill,  amid  gardens  and  lush  meadows; 
and  from  this  height  he  could  look  down  on  the  pictur- 
esque little  harbor,  and  the  rippling  green  waters  of  the 
bay,  and  the  wide  sand-banks  left  exposed  by  the  tide, 
and  also  on  the  far  expanse  of  sea,  pale  and  blue  in  the 
hazy  sunlight,  with  one  or  two  dots  of  ships  apparently 
making  slowly  in  for  the  tiny  port  before  a  gentle  southerly 
breeze. 

He  felt  so  much  of  a  stranger  here.  No  doubt,  if  he 
were  to  go  through  the  shops  down  there  he  might  dis- 
cover this  one  or  that  who  would  perhaps  recognize  Master 
Willie;  and  no  doubt  if  he  were  away  up  over  the  hills 
there  ("the  mountains"  they  called  them)  he  could  find 
a  cabin  or  two  where  he  would  be  welcomed  by  some 
aguish  old  crone,  with  many  a  "^^  Glory  be  to  God!"  But 
of  his  old  intimates,  as  he  had  learned  from  time  to  time, 
there  was  scarcely  one  left.  His  father  had  died  many 
years  before.  Why,  even  the  Corlc  Chronicle,  which  the 
Inisheen  people  used  to  take  in  chiefly  because  Master 
Willie  put  his  poetry  about  Inisheen,  and  his  songs  and 
palaverings  about  the  Inisheen  girls,  into  it,  existed  no 
longer.  When  he  drove  up  to  the  Im^^erial,  the  very 
hostler  who  took  the  horses  had  never  heard  of  the  Fitz- 
geralds  who  once  had  the  place.  And  yet,  as  he  looked 
at  the  quays  and  the  houses  and  the  harbor,  Inisheen  did 
not  seem  to  have  changed  so  much.  It  was  he  who  was 
changed;  and  something  else — was  it  his  youth,  or  a  re- 
membrance of  his  youth,  that,  whether  he  thought  of  it 
or  not,  was  always  haunting  him,  and  making  Inisheen 
look  strange? — seemed  now  far  away. 

He  wandered  down  from  this  height,  thinking  he  would 
go  and  have  a  look  at  the  newer  Inisheen  that  faced  the 


860  SHANDON  BELLS, 

sea.  As  he  was  walking  along  the  main  thoroughfare  of 
the  older  town — perhaps  not  noticing  much — and  passing 
one  of  the  side  streets  leading  to  the  quays,  he  heard  an 
exclamation  behind  him — 

"  The  Lord  be  marcif  ul  to  us!" 

He  turned  instantly  and  recognized  old  Molly,  who  for 
innumerable  years  had  sold  nuts  and  apples  and  oranges 
to  the  boys  of  Inisheen.  The  old  woman  struggled  up 
from  the  barrel  on  which  she  was  sitting. 

"Och,  God  help  us  all,  'tis  yourself,  Masther  Willie!" 
she  said,  and  she  seized  his  hand  with  her  long  skinny 
fingers.  "  Och,  'tis  the  great  gintleman  you  are  now,  wid 
your  horses  and  your  carriages  riding  through  the  town. 
Shure  I  thought  'twas  yoursilf,  Masther  Willie;  and  then  I 
thought  'twas  nansinse:  and  shure  you're  come  to  take 
the  place  your  father  had  before  ye — his  sowl's  in  glory, 
amin!  Oh,  wirasthrue,  but  me  back  is  broke  Avid  the 
could  nights!  And  yer  honor's  coming  back  to  the  Im- 
payrial  now — and  you'll  have  a  good  word  for  ould  Molly 
wid  the  sarvints?" 

He  had  to  explain  to  the  ancient  Molly — whose  aspect, 
by  the  way,  would  have  been  more  venerable  had  her  gray 
hair  been  less  dishevelled,  and  had  she  worn  a  dress  more 
appropriate  to  her  age  and  sex  than  an  old  soldier's  jacket, 
the  scarlet  of  which  had  got  sadly  faded  through  exposure 
to  wind  and  weather — that  he  had  no  intention  of  re-es- 
tablishing the  Fitzgeralds  in  the  Imperial  Hotel;  and  then 
he  presented  her  with  all  the  silver  he  could  find  in  his 
pockets,  and  passed  on. 

How  often  he  had  walked  along  this  very  road,  in  the 
far  bygone  days,  with  "the  eager  ambitions  and  wild  de- 
sires of  youth  busy  with  the  future!  And  now  that  he 
had  attained  to  almost  everything  he  had  dreamed  of — iu 
certain  directions  to  far  more  than  ever  he  had  dreamed 
of — to  what  did  it  all  amount?  Well,  he  had  made  many 
friends,  known  and  unknown;  and  that  was  pleasant;  and 
he  strove  to  remain  on  kindly  terms  with  them;  and  to  do 
what  little  he  could,  in  the  way  of  writing,  if  that  might 
be  of  any  service  to  them,  in  as  thorough  and  honest  a 
fashion  as  was  possible.  But,  so  far  as  he  could  see,  there 
was  not  anything  in  life  much  better  than  showing  a  pic- 
true-book  to  a  sick  child,  or  some  such  simple  act  of  be- 
nevolence or  charity;  and  in  this  respect  he  had  entirely 
adopted  the  views  of  his  wife.     Neither  he  nor  she  was 


SHANDON  BELLS.  3G1 

concerned  about  the  motives  that  might  be  imputed  to 
tliem.  If  it  was  a  hixury,  they  could  atford  it.  If  it  was 
self-gratification,  at  least  it  did  not  harm  others.  If  it 
was  outraging  the  principles  of  political  economy,  the 
principles  of  political  economy  would  have  to  look  out  for 
themselves.  In  short,  both  he  and  she,  as  it  turned  out, 
found  themselves  with  so  many  things  to  do  that  they 
really  had  no  time  to  sit  down  and  construct  analyses  of 
the  Moral  Faculty. 

This  newer  Inisheen  out-fronting  the  sea  was  more 
changed  than  the  older  part  of  the  town,  for  a  number  of 
new-looking  villas  had  been  added — most  likely  the  sum- 
mer residences  of  the  Cork  people.  But  it  was  pleasanter 
for  liim  to  turn  his  back  on  these,  and  find  before  him 
the  old  familiar  picture — the  spacious  view  that  he  was  in 
the  habit  of  conjuring  up  before  his  mental  vision  when- 
ever he  wanted  to  introduce  a  sense  of  light  and  width — ^ 
perhaps  a  touch  of  solitariness — into  his  writing.  Solitary 
enough  it  was.  Nothing  but  the  level  miles  of  pale-brown 
sand;  and  the  vast  extent  of  glassy  pale-blue  sea;  and  be- 
tween these  the  long  thin  lines  of  the  ripples  that  came  in 
and  in,  darkening  in  shadow,  until  suddenly  there  was  a 
gleam  of  silver,  thin  as  the  ^^ga  of  a  knife,  and  tben  a 
curling  over  of  white  foam  sparkling  in  the  sun,  and  the 
protracted  ^'hs-ss-ss''  as  the  wave  broke  along  the  shore. 
A  pale  and  placid  picture;  perhaps  a  trifle  sad  also;  for 
with  such  a  faint  and  fair  background  the  mind  is  apt  to 
set  to  work  to  put  in  figures — and  these  would  be  walking 
along  the  sand,  naturally;  and  they  might  be  young;  and 
dreaming  dreams. 

Then  he  recollected  the  poor  chap  with  the  sprained 
ankle;  and  so  he  turned  and  walked  leisurely  back  to  the 
hotel;  discovering,  when  he  got  there,  that  Master  Frank 
had  been  engaged  the  while  in  carving  his  name,  in  bold 
letters,  on  one  of  the  window-shutters. 
'  ^*  When  I  grow  up,  papa,"  said  he,  contemplating  this 
tentative  effort  at  immortality,  **  I  hope  I  shall  be  famous 
like  you." 

^''  Who  told  you  I  was  famous?"  his  father  said,  with  a 
laugh. 

**  Mamma.  I  wish  I  could  get  such  nice  letters  from 
people  you  don't  know;  from  America,  and  Canada,  and 
as  far  away  as  where  Robinson  Crusoe  lived.     Sometimes 


362  SHANDON  BELLS. 

mamma  reads  them  to  me.  What  did  yoa  do  to  make  the 
Queen  call  you  ^  well-beloved '  ?" 

"  What  nonsense  has  got  into  your  head  now?" 

''No,  it  is  not,"  said  Master  Frank,  pertinaciously. 
*'  Mamma  read  it  out  of  a  big  book.  The  Queen  said  you 
were  'trusty  and  well-beloved.'  " 

"  Oh,  that  is  nothing.  Don't  you  know,  when  the 
Queen  appoints  you  a  Royal  Commissioner  to  inquire  into 
anything,  that  is  the  phrase  she  uses.  I  suppose  your 
mamma  had  got  hold  of  that  Blue-book — " 

'*  But  the  Queen  would  not  say  so  unless  she  meant  it. 
She  doesn't  tell  lies,  does  she?" 

"  AVhy,  of  course  not.  Well,  Master  Frank,  until  you 
arc  older  we  Avill  postpone  the  subject,  and  in  the  mean 
time  we  will  have  some  tea.  I  suppose  you  are  aware  that 
you  may  have  late  dinner  with  me  to-night?" 

"  Just  as  you  please,  papa.  Mamma  said  I  was  not  to 
trouble  you — " 

"  And  you  have  remembered  your  lesson  very  well.  In 
consideration  of  which  I  will  tell  you  a  story — " 

"Oh,  will  you?"  and  immediately  the  small  lad  hob- 
bled across  from  the  window  to  his  father's  knee,  looking 
up  with  his  big  girlish-looking  eyes  full  of  expectation; 
for  the  stories  his  papa  told  were  far  more  wonderful  than 
anything  to  be  found  in  books. 

"  Not  only  that — but  it  is  a  story  of  a  bull!" 

"A  very  wild  one?" 

^^  K  fearfully  wild  one." 

There  was  a  sort  of  sigh  of  delight. 

"Well,  this  bull  used  to  roam  about  just  behind  this 
very  town  of  Inisheen;  and  it  is  very  open  there — plenty 
of  bog-land — and  he  could  see  you  from  a  great  distance; 
and  he'd  come  stalking  along  the  road,  right  in  the  mid- 
dle, and  allow  no  one  to  pass.  And  he  was  especially  sav- 
age with  boys;  and  you  wouldn't  believe  the  roundabout 
ways  we  had  to  take — " 

"  Oh,  Avere  you  one  of  them,  papa?" 

"  I  was  alive  then,"  the  story-teller  continued,  evasive- 
ly, "and  I  may  have  looked  on  and  seen  what  the  other 
boys  did.  But  the  terrible  business  about  this  beast  was 
that  he  could  hop  over  a  wall  with  the  greatest  ease;  and 
it  was  no  use  shutting  a  gate  on  him,  if  he  meant  to  be 
after  ^-ou.  He  was  a  terror  to  the  whole  district — espe- 
cially to  the  boys;  and  we  used  to  get  angry — I  mean  they 


SHANDON  BELLS,  363 

used  to  get  angry,  and  wonder  wh^^  they  wonld  do  to  the 
bull  if  only  they  could  get  the  chaiiieo.  Then  at  last  one 
of  us — one  of  them  hit  on  a  plan.  They  went  carefully 
along  the  road  and  picked  out  a  place  where  the  bog  came 
close  up,  and  where  there  were  just  two  or  three  clumps 
of  moss,  so  that  you  could  cross  over  if  you  went  lightly 
and  watched  your  footing.  Of  course  you  remember  what 
Bruce  did  at  Bannockburn?" 

**He  dug  pits  and  covered  them  over — " 

*' Precisely.  Well,  then,  this  was  a  sort  of  ambuscade 
like  that.  I  don't  think  ambuscade  is  the  right  word; 
but  it's  good  enough  for  a  bull.  Well,  then,  the  next 
thing  the  boys  did — " 

"  But  you  were  one  of  them,  papa?" 

"I  might  be  looking  on.  I  might  have  gone  round  by 
the  bog  that  day.  At  all  events,  they  went  to  a  person 
called  Andy  the  Hopper,  that  I've  often  told  you  about; 
and  Andy  was  a  curious-minded  creature,  who  always 
liked  to  have  red  sleeves  when  he  could  afford  it  to  his 
jacket;  and  they  got  the  loan  of  an  old  jacket  with  the 
red  sleeves;  and  they  spread  that  out  on  two  sticks;  and 
away  they  went  along  the  road.  And  there,  sure  enough, 
was  the  bull.  He  didn't  say  anything;  he  only  looked. 
Then  they  went  on,  cautiously,  until  they  were  within  a 
certain  distance;  and  there  they  stopped.  The  bull  didn'fc 
move.  Then  they  began  to  retreat  a  little — and  you  must 
know.  Master  Frank,  that  a  bull  always  understands  that 
as  an  invitation  for  him  to  come  and  chivy  you.  The 
bull  came  on  a  bit;  stoj^ped  for  a  second;  then  gave  a  loud 
bellow;  and  then  came  on  faster.  This  was  precisely  what 
those  wicked  boys  wanted.  For  now  they  turned  and  took 
to  their  heels;  and  the  bull  came  careering  after  them, 
and  then  at  the  spot  they  had  marked  they  left  the  road, 
and  went  hopping  across  the  bog,  that  was  very  wet  at 
that  time,  for  there  had  been  much  rain.  Very  well, 
then,  you  see,  when  the  bull  came  tearing  along,  he  had 
no  notion  of  a  strategy  or  an  ambuscade  or  anything  of 
that  kind;  and  he  did  not  stop  to  consider  that  he  was  far 
heavier  than  a  boy,  and  that  his  sharp  hard  feet  would 
sink  where  theirs  would  just  touch  the  little  dry  clumps; 
and  so  in  he  went  with  a  splash  and  a  struggle — and  an- 
other splash  and  a  struggle — and  another  splash  and  an- 
other struggle — always  getting  deeper  and  deeper  into  the 
thick  black  mud,  and  bellowing  and  roaring  with  rage. 


864  SHAN  DON  BELLS. 

You  iieTcr  saw  anything  like  it.  Mind  you,  when  wo 
stopped  and  looked,  I  won't  say  we  weren't  a  Jittle  bit 
frightened;  for  if  one  of  his  fore-legs  had  got  hold  of  a 
]iiece  of  good  solid  ground,  we  might  liave  had  another 
I'un  for  it,  and  he'd  have  knocked  the  whole  town  to 
smithereens  before  he'd  have  stopped.  After  a  long  time, 
however,  he  gave  it  up.  He  found  his  struggles  useless; 
and  when  he  bellowed,  it  wasn't  *  Wait  till  I  catch  you;'  it 
was,  *  Who's  going  to  get  me  out?'" 

**  Papa,"  said  Master  Frank,  though tfull}',  "  could  you 
have  got  near  him  then?" 

**  Oh  yes,  I  dare  sa}^     He  was  stuck  fast." 

'*  You  could  have  got  near  him  in  safety?" 

**  Oh  yes,  I  think  so,"  answered  the  father,  not  doubt- 
ing that  the  boy,  who  had  been  taught  to  be  kind  to  all 
animals,  had  imagined  some  way  of  getting  the  poor  bull 
out  of  his  troubles. 

'*Then  didn't  you  get  a  big  stick  and  beat  him  over 
the  head?"  said  Master  Frank,  eagerly. 

**  Well,  no,"  said  the  papa,  a  little  disappointed.  "  But 
I'll  tell  you  what  happened — it  took  nearly  half  the  peo- 
ple of  Inisheen  to  get  that  bull  out;  for  they  were  all 
afraid  to  go  and  fasten  the  ropes;  and  when  it  did  get  on 
to  dry  land  again  it  seemed  anxious  to  reduce  the  pojnila- 
tion  of  the  neighborhood.  I  don't  think  I  saw  that,"  the 
narrator  added,  demurely. 

"You  didn't  wait  to  see  it  hauled  out?"  said  Master 
Fj-ank,  with  staring  eyes. 

"  No;  you  see,  Frankie,  there  were  a  lot  of  wicked  boys 
about  tiie  place;  and  the  people  suspected  they  had  in- 
veigled the  bull  into  the  bog;  and  supj)osing  I  had  been 
about  just  at  that  time — looking  on,  you  know — well, 
they  might  have  thought  I  had  had  a  hand  in  it,  and  one 
might  have  got  into  trouble.  It's  always  the  best  plan  to 
keep  away  when  you  see  a  scrimmage  going  on.  The 
most  innocent  people  are  sometimes  susjiccted.  Never 
you  go  near  crowds." 

Master  Frank  thought  over  this  story  for  some  time, 
and  then  he  said  in  an  absent  kind  of  way, 

"'  I  believe  it  was  you  yourself,  papa,  that  teased  the 
bull  into  the  bog." 

They  had  late  dinner  together  in  the  evening,  and  no 
doubt  it  was  that  circumstance  that  provoked  Master 
Frank  into  unusual  animation  and  talkativeness,  in  the 


SHAN  DON  BELLS.  S65 

course  of  which  he  unlocked  many  a  dark  and  secret  cup- 
board of  his  mind,  where  he  had  stored  away  subjects  or 
remarks  for  subsequent  examination.  He  startled  his 
father,  for  example,  by  suddenly,  and  aproj)os  of  nothing, 
asking  him  how  it  was  possible  for  a  man  to  have  three 
grandmothers. 

"I  don't  know  what  you  mean,"  his  father  said. 

"  Why,  don't  you  remember,  papa,  the  organ -gi'inder 
coming  to  Hyde  Park  Gardens,  and  playing  ^  The  Last 
Eose  of  Summer'?" 

'^No,  1  don't  recollect  that  remarkable  circumstanee. 
I  suppose  he  -didn't  remain  very  long," 

*'  But  don't  you  remember  you  asked  mamma  what  sort 
of  a  man  he  could  have  been  who  first  twisted  the  air 
about  with  variations;  and  then  you  began  and  told  me  all 
that  you  hoped  liad  happened  to  him  when  he  wa-s  alive?" 

'^  Well,  I  don't  remember  that  either." 

''  And  you  said  you  hoped  he  had  three  grandmothers, 
and  never  knew  what  his  name  was,  because  they  kept 
bothering  him — " 

^*  I  am  not  quite  sure;  but  I  think  we  must  have  been 
talking  nonsense,  Frankie." 

*^And  mamma  said  you  had  invented  enough  evil 
things  for  him,  and  you  might  turn  to  the  men  who  were 
cutting  the  tails  off  cattle  and.  shooting  at  people  here  in 
Ireland." 

"  The  less  you  say  about  that  the  better.  Master  Frank, 
for  in  this  part  of  the  country  walls  have  ears." 

"I  know,"  said  Master  Frank,  confidently,  *Hhat  mam- 
ma will  be  very  glad  when  you  have  done  with  the  fishing 
and  we  all  go  bfick  to  England  again." 

"Nonsense!" 

"But  I  heard  her  say  so,  papa!" 

"  She  was  having  a  little  joke  with  you.  Master  Frank. 
You  don't  understand  these  deep  questions  yet,  my  lad. 
Don't  you  know  that  I  am  not  a  landlord,  nor  an  English- 
man, nor  one  who  pays  rent?  So  you  see  I  can't  do  any- 
thing wrong;  and  we  are  as  safe  at  Boat  of  Garry  as  in 
Hyde  Park." 

"I  know  mamma  does  not  like  }^ou  to  go  away  fishing 
by  yourself,"  said  Master  Frank,  doggedly. 

"'  But  do  I  ever  go  away  fishing  by  myself — or  did  I 
ever  go  away  fishing  by  myself  until  you  must  needs  set 
about  spraining  your  ankle?    And  supposing  there  were 


866  SHAN  DON  BELLS. 

any  of  these  rascals  about  Boat  of  Garry,  whicli  tlierc  are 
not;  and  supposing  they  were  coming  stealing  along  on 
tiptoe  when  I  wasn't  watching;  and  supposing  you  were 
standing  by,  with  a  gaff  in  your  hand,  and  a  gaff  with  a 
remarkably  sharp  steel  point,  what  then?  What  would 
you  do?  You  can  lay  hold  of  a  salmon  or  a  sea-trout 
smartly  enough.  Could  you  catch  one  of  Captain  Moon- 
light's men  by  the  ear?" 

The  boy  did  not  answer  that,  for  he  was  eyidently  con- 
sidering something  with  much  care.  At  last  he  said, 
meditatively, 

"I  wish  you  were  the  king,  papa,  and  then  you  would 
show  the  rascals  something." 

" But  how?    What  should  I  do?" 

*'Kill  the  whole  lot!"  was  the  prompt  answer. 

'*Well,  that  would  teach  them  a  lesson,  wouldn't  it?" 

Dinner  over,  Fitzgerald  drew  in  his  chair  to  the  lire — 
more  by  custom  than  for  warmth,  for  the  night  was  mild 
— and  lit  a  cigar,  and  proceeded  to  look  over  a  newspaper. 
This  last  performance  was  a  sore  trial  for  the  patience  of 
Master  Frank,  who  doubtless  considered  that  it  would  have 
been  much  more  sensible  to  devote  the  time  to  a  discus- 
sion of  the  affairs  of  the  country  between  two  congenial 
minds.  As  for  himself,  he  scorned  to  seek  refuge  in 
books.  Kot  having  two  legs  that  he  could  twist  about  the 
chairs  in  his  usual  fashion,  he  put  the  one  at  his  disposal 
into  every  conceivable  attitude,  until  he  nearly  succeeded 
in  tilting  the  table  over  with  his  foot;  then  he  tied  a  bit 
of  string  to  a  teaspoon,  and  twitched,  to  see  if  it  would 
spin  like  a  six)on-bait;  then,  he  got  out  his  pocket-knife 
and  slowly  and  carefully  sharpened  the  edge  on  the  boards 
of  a  book,  finishing  up  by  carving  his  initials  thereon,  just 
to  try  the  point,  as  it  were;  and  then,  as  time  went  on, 
he  grew  suspicious. 

"  Papa,"  said  he,  **you  are  not  going  out,  are  you?" 
For,  indeed,  Fitzgerald  had  once  or  twice  gone  to  the 
window  and  glanced  outside. 

"If  I  do,"  his  father  said,  *'it  won't  make  any  differ- 
ence. It  will  soon  be  time  for  you  to  be  off  to  bed.  I  may 
go  out;  but  I  shall  not  be  long;  and  you  will  be  sound 
asleep." 

[Nothing  more  was  said  for  a  while;  Master  Frank  being 
engaged  in  drawing  a  portrait  of  Balbus  on  the  title-page 
of  his  Latin  Grammar.     Then  he  said. 


SHANDON  BELLS.  367 

"  Is  it  a  beautiful  night,  papa?" 

'^  Oh  yes." 

Then  again — 

"  Is  it  a  very  beautiful  night,  papa?" 

"The  moon  must  be  getting  higher  now,"  his  father 
said,  going  to  the  window,  and  pushing  the  blind  aside. 
**  Oh  yes,  it  is  a  fine  enough  night." 

The  boy  got  hold  of  his  stick  and  hobbled  across  the 
room. 

**  Let  me  look,  papa.  Oh,  isn't  it  a  beautiful  night! 
What  a  pity  it  is  we  can't  see  the  sea." 

"Frank,"  said  his  father,  putting  his  hand  on  the  boy's 
head,  "  would  you  like  to  go  with  me?" 

He  looked  up  with  a  bright,  eager  look  of  assent  and 
gladness;  but  instantly,  with  a  great  deal  of  bravery,  he 
shook  liis  liead. 

"I  promised  mamma  not  to  bother  you,"  he  said, 
slowly.     "And — and  besides,  papa,  I  can't  walk." 

He  hung  down  his  head  a  little,  to  hide  the  tears  of 
disappointment  that  would  rise  to  his  eyes.  His  father 
was  looking  out  of  the  window,  and  did  not  notice.  But 
presently  he  said, 

"  Poor  chap,  you've  had  rather  a  dull  afternoon!  Look 
here,  Frankie,  I'll  tell  you  what  we'll  do — as  sure  as  ever 
was.  The  horses  have'  done  almost  nothing  to-day;  sup- 
posing we  were  to  get  the  carriage  round?  What  do  you 
say  to  that?  We'll  go  for  a  drive,  my  lad;  and  then  you'll 
not  only  see  the  sea  in  moonlight,  but  the  bay  also,  and 
a  wooded  glen  I  was  going  to.  What  do  you  say  to 
that?" 

"Mamma  won't  be  angry?"  suggested  Master  Frank, 
doubtfully — but  it  was  clear  from  his  face  that  he  regarded 
the  proposal  with  immense  delight. 

"  We  will  buy  her  something,  Frankie,  to  pacify  her, 
when  we  get  back  to  Ban  try.  Now  you  go  and  sit  down, 
and  I  will  get  hold  of  Muribough;  and  as  soon  as  we  can 
we'll  have  the  carriage  ready  for  you.  But  I  can  tell  you, 
my  lad,  that  wasn't  how  I  was  treated  when  I  was  a  boy — 
there  were  no  late  dinners  for  me,  or  a  carriage  to  take  me 
out  for  a  drive  in  the  moonlight.  I  really  don't  know  what 
this  generation  is  coming  to." 

"  But,  papa,  if  you  could  have  got  it  you  would  have 
taken  it,"  said  the  boy,  looking  up. 

"  That's  neither  here  nor  there,"  his  father  said,  as  he 


368  SHANDON  BELLS. 

put  on  liis  hat  and  coat.  "  That's  neither  here  nor  there. 
What  I  say  is  that  boys  nowadays  are  spoiled;  and  espe- 
cially boys  that  are  allowed  to  come  to  Boat  of  Garry  when 
they  ought  to  be  at  their  school  at  Campden  Hill;  and 
still  more  especially  boys  whose  mothers  buy  for  them  a 
twelve-foot  trout-rod  before  they've  even  got  the  length  of 
omnis  Gallia.  Now  don't  you  attempt  to  go  down  those 
stairs  till  I  come  and  fetch  you." 

Fitzgerald  seemed  in  the  lightest  and  pleasantest  of  hu- 
mors when  finally  he  and  his  small  boy  had  got  themselves 
ensconced  in  the  open  landau,  with  an  abundance  of  rugs 
over  their  knees.  He  had,  indeed,  been  loath  to  leave  the 
little  chap  for  a  second  time  that  day,  even  though  it  was 
not  very  far  from  his  bedtime;  and  he  was  glad  to  give  him 
this  unexpected  trip  as  some  compensation  for  thedulness 
of  the  afternoon.  Moreover,  the  night  was  fine;  the  air 
was  mild;  the  skies  clear;  Inisheen  and  its  wide,  still 
waters  looked  quite  picturesque  in  the  moonlight. 

'*And  what  would  you  say  now,  Master  Frank,"  his 
papa  asked,  as  they  drove  out  from  the  town  into  the 
silence  of  the  country,  **if  I  wei-e  to  tell  you  that  I  had 
a  tryst  with  the  fairies  in  the  wooded  glen  I  told  you 
about?" 

The  boy  looked  up;  he  seldom  knew  whether  his  father 
was  joking  or  in  earnest. 

*'  I  did  not  think  there  were  any  fairies  nowadays," 
was  the  answer. 

*' Well,"  his  father  continued,  "if  you  ever  make  a 
tryst  with  Don  Fierna  and  his  little  people  to  come  and 
visit  them  once  in  every  seven  years,  you  will  find  it  more 
and  more  difficult,  as  you  grow  older  and  older,  to  listen 
hard  enough  to  hear  them  coming,  and  to  look  hard 
enough  to  see  the  sides  of  the  glen  opening  and  the  long 
procession  appearing.  When  you  are  young  perhaps  it  is 
a  little  easier.  Do  you  remember  how  they  stole  away 
Burd  Helen  into  Elfin-land?" 

**0h,  yes.     You  told  me  about  that." 

*^Then  you  remember  that  Childe  Rowland  was  the 
youngest  of  all  her  brothers.  Do  you  think  any  of  the 
older  ones  could  ever  have  found  o-ut  the  dark  tower,  no 
matter  how  Merlin  helped  them?  If  Childe  Rowland  had 
not  had  the  eyes  of  youth  he  never  would  have  found  his 
way,  and  I  believe  i3urd  Helen  would  have  been  in  the 
dark  tower  still." 


SHANDON  BELLS.  369 

**  I  have  never  seen  any,"  was  the  small  lad's  practical 
remark. 

'^Well,  that  is  strange.  But  in  any  case  you  won't 
mind  waiting  a  little  while  in  the  carriage,  when  we  get 
to  the  glen,  and  I  will  go  down  by  myself,  and  if  I  hear 
or  see  anything  I  will  come  back  and  tell  you." 

''Ob,  but  I  know  better  than  that,  papa,"  said  the  boy, 
shrewdly.  ''You  are  not  going  to  look  for  any  fairies. 
When  you  go  away  by  yourself,  it  is  to  Avatch  rabbits  and 
other  things,  and  write  about  them.  I  know  very  well. 
Whenever  mamma  sees  you  go  out  alone,  without  your 
fishing-rod,  she  always  calls  us  back." 

"Oh,  indeed.  But  then,  you  see,  Frankie,  you  were 
never  at  Inisheen  before;  and  strange  things  used  to  hap- 
pen about  here,  many  years  ago,  when  I  was  young;  and 
I  don't  know  what  may  not  be  seen  in  that  glen.  So  you 
will  remain  in  the  carriage  for  awhile,  when  we  get  there; 
and  if  I  spy  out  the  fairies  down  in  the  hollow,  with  their 
glowworm  lamps,  you  know,  I  sha'n't  say  a  single  word  to 
Siem,  but  I'll  come  back  to  the  road  at  once  and  whistle 
for  you.     Do  you  understand?" 

"That's  all  nonsense,  papa.  I  don't  believe  there  are 
any." 

"Wait  and  see." 

At  length  they  arrived  at  a  portion  of  the  road  that 
was  shadowed  over  by  a  double  row  of  elm-trees;  and  here 
Fitzgerald  called  on  Mur tough  to  stop,  and  got  out,  leav- 
ing Master  Frank  in  the  carriage. 

"Now,  you  listen,  Frankie,"  said  he,  "and  when  I 
whistle  make  ready." 

''  I  could  not  go  down  into  that  glen  with  my  sprained 
ankle,  papa,"  the  boy  said. 

"  People  never  know,"  said  he,  as  he  went  up  and  over 
the  little  bank  by  the  roadside,  "  what  they  can  do  when 
they  see  fairies  coming  along.  It  is  quite  an  event  in 
one's  life." 

Indeed,  it  was  Avith  no  great  heaviness  of  heart,  no  very 
acute  anguish  of  remembrance,  that  he  now,  for  the  second 
time,  and  in  middle-age — that  is  to  say,  at  seven-and- 
thirty — went  to  keep  the  tryst  he  had  made  at  three-and- 
twenty.  It  was  with  a  brisk  enough  step  that  he  crossed 
the  open  glade,  and  then  more  cautiously  made  his  way 
down  the  steep  bank,  through  the  brushwood,  until  once 
more  he  stood  by  the  little  scooped-out  hollow  in  the  rock, 


370  SHANDON  BELLS. 

into  which  the  water  fell  with  a  continuous  murmur. 
The  place  was  quite  unaltered.  It  might  have  been  yes- 
terday that  he  and  Kitty  had  stood  there,  with  their 
hands  clasped,  before  he  roAved  her  away  back  to  Inisheen. 
It  might  have  been  yesterday  that  he  had  gone  back  to 
the  place  only  to  find  himself  standing  there  alone,  con- 
juring up  phantoms,  and  not  then  quite  so  reconciled  to 
the  fate  that  had  befallen  him. 

Yes;  that  former  visit,  seven  years  before,  had  been  a 
sharper  tiling.  It  seemed  to  him  that  then,  for  the  first 
time,  he  had  realized  what  this  separation  meant.  Our 
other  griefs  and  miseries  over  the  loss  of  our  loved  ones 
who  go  away  from  us  through  the  sad  portal  of  death, 
keen  as  they  may  be,  are  in  time  solaced  by  a  wistful  hope 
of  reunion.  What  is  that  but  a  temporary  separation,  if 
they  are  awaiting  us  yonder,  with  light  on  their  faces? 
But  this  separation  from  one  who,  as  we  think,  is  to  be 
linked  Avith  us  through  this  brief  life,  and  in  death,  and 
in  the  farther  life  beyond — that  seemed  to  him  the  true 
separation,  and  the  breaking  down  of  faith,  and  a  hope- 
lessness for  ever  and  ever.  Something  of  the  old  misery 
had  come  back  on  him;  the  old  pain  had  stirred  again  at 
his  heart;  the  quick,  sudden  agony  of  the  discovery  of  her 
falsehood  had  throbbed  again,  even  after  these  years.  It 
was  so  strange — his  standing  here  on  one  side;  on  the 
other  a  vacant  space,  a  voiceless  air,  a  darkness  where  the 
light  of  her  eyes  ought  to  have  been.  That  night  was  one 
not  easily  to  be  forgotten. 

But  now,  seven  years  later,  all  that  was  over  for  the 
most  part;  and  he  sought  out  a  bit  of  rock  which  afforded 
him  a  kind  of  seat,  and  sat  down  and  listened  to  the  mo- 
notonous gurgling  and  rushing  of  the  water.  He  was 
scarcely  sorry  now  that  all  that  had  happened  in  the  olden 
time.  It  was  a  kind  of  pretty  picture,  mostly.  Or,  rather, 
it  was  a  kind  of  well  of  romance  and  sentiment  that  he 
could  dip  into  Avhen  he  pleased  for  literary  purposes. 
Nay,  to  tell  the  truth,  had  not  this  very  journey  been 
partly  undertaken  with  some  such  purpose?  It  was  like 
renewing  one's  youth  to  get  into  this  realm  of  imagination 
again.  That  may  have  been  the  moral  of  his  remarks  to 
Master  Frank  about  the  increasing  difficulty  of  finding 
out  where  the  fairies  were. 

And  yet,  while  he  was  thus  convincing  himself  that  he 
was  a  highly  matter-of-fact  person,  and  striving  to  regard 


SHAN  DON  BELLS.  871 

that  episode  in  his  youthful  life  as  something  apart  from 
him,  and  inclined  to  wonder  what  influence  on  his  writing 
these  occurrences  and  despairs  and  all  the  rest  of  it  may 
have  had,  some  foolish  fondness  for  the  bygone  days  stole 
over  him;  and  he  would  have  been  glad  to  know  that 
Kitty  was  well,  and  looking  pretty,  and  enjoying  content. 
He  had  heard  of  her  once  or  twice,  but  in  the  vaguest 
way.  He  did  not  know  where  she  was  living  now.  And 
indeed  the  only  regret  that  possessed  him  at  this  moment 
was  about  the  final  portion  of  that  vow  that  he  and  she 
had  taken  together.  Why  should  there  have  been  any 
hatred  or  revenge  in  these  promises  made  by  two  young 
people  who  could  know  so  little  of  what  was  before  them?" 
Kitty  herself  had  begged  of  him  to  make  it  a  love-night. 
He  remembered  the  imploring  look  of  her  eyes;  the  very 
tone  of  her  voice  (and  how  sweet  and  soft  and  musical 
that  was!).  ^^  Oh,  Willie,  not  that,^^  she  had  said;  '^  let 
this  he  a  love-night  P'  Did  he  wish  ^'  grief  to  he  a  guest 
in  her  house,  and  sorrow  to  dwell  in  her  house  forevef'i 
Surely  not. 

Kitty  had  made  his  life  very  beautiful  for  a  time. 
Supposing  that  lie  had  never  met  her  at  all — in  these  early 
years?  Could  he  ever  have  understood  quite  so  well  that 
nameless  witchery  that  makes  so  much  of  the  wonder  and 
joy  of  human  existence  and  is  the  cause  of  so  much  of  its 
misery?  Could  he  have  known  quite  so  intimately  what 
all  the  poets  have  been  talking  about  since  ever  Helen 
came  to  Ilion's  towers — with  *^  her  young  eyes  still  wound- 
ing where  they  looked"?  He  never  would  have  known 
how  keen  the  blue  of  the  speedwell  was,  had  not  she  and 
he  together  found  it  on  those  far  uplands,  that  now  seemed 
to  him  as  if  they  must  have  been  very  near  the  sky,  so 
clear  and  vivid  was  the  light  over  them.  Poor  Kitty! 
Did  she  ever  sing  now  ''  Then  farewell,  but  whenever  you 
welcome  the  hour"?  Had  she  ever  come  to  Cork  again, 
and  climbed  up  to  Audley  Place,  and  thought  of  the  old 
days?  There  was  no  reason  why  she  should  not  have 
made  such  a  pilgrimage;  her  husband  was  well  off;  Kitty 
would  have  a  maid  of  her  own  now;  and  she  used  rather 
to  like  travelling  about. 

The  night  was  just  as  still  as  that  on  which  he  and 
Kitty  had  come  there;  there  was  not  a  breath  of  wind 
stirring  the  bushes  overhead;  the  only  sound  was  the  prat- 
tling of  the  streamlet  in  the  silence. 


373  SHANDON  BELLS. 

"  It  sounds  like  laughing,"  he  was  thinking.  *'  Per- 
haps it  has  listened  to  all  the  nonsense  that  has  been 
talked  by  the  different  lovers  who  have  come  here;  and  it 
may  have  understood  all  the  time,  and  gone  on  chuckling. 
It  does  sound  as  if  it  was  laughing.  To  think  of  all  the 
secrets  it  has  heard;  and  the  vows;  and  never  a  word  of 
warning  as  to  what  it  knew  of  the  results.  Is  it  malicious, 
or  only  sardonic — that  chuckling  down  there?  But  it  is 
better  to  make  a  joke  of  it.  Everything  gets  laughed 
away  in  time." 

All  that  bygone  period  seemed  far  away — and  beautiful 
in  a  fashion,  now  that  the  pain  of  parting  wiili  it  was 
over.  It  had  enriched  his  life;  there  were  innumenible 
pictures  he  could  conjure  up — always  with  Kitty  smiling 
and  pleasant  as  the  central  figure;  perhfips,  too,  it  had 
given  him  a  key  to  unlock  some  of  the  scciots  and  mys- 
teries of  existence.  Was  there  any  need  to  think  harshly 
of  poor  Kitty,  or  to  speak  of  betrayal  or  falsehood?  We 
do  not  quarrel  with  the  dead.  She  was  as  one  dead  to 
him;  and  the  memory  of  her  was  not  tragic,  or  even  pa- 
thetic, but  rather  pretty,  with  a  vague  and  poetical  charm 
around  it.  It  had  been  pathetic  and  tragic  enough,  and 
darkened  with  terror  and  pain  and  the  wrestlings  of  de- 
spair; but  now,  when  he  thought  of  her,  he  saw  a  laugh- 
ing and  pleasant  Kitty,  rather  inclined  to  be  impertinent, 
and  wandering  carelessly  in  sweet  woodland  ways.  It  was 
never  for  Kitty  to  rise  to  the  level  of  this  other  and  beau- 
tiful nature  that  he  knew;  that  was  linked  with  his;  that 
provoked  his  wonder  and  admiration  the  farther  that  he 
saw  of  its  nobleness  and  simplicity,  No ;  Kitty  was  a 
charming  little  coquette;  tender  in  a  way;  not  without 
her  good  points,  and  a  very  fitting  heroine  for  love-verses 
in  the  Corh  Chronicle, 

And  yet — and  yet — there  was  a  kind  of  tremulousness 
about  those  pictures  that  rose  before  him;  he  could  not 
quite  coldly  regard  them,  and  ticket  off  their  literary 
value;  sometimes  a  trace  of  the  nameless  fascination  and 
glamour  of  youth  came  wandering  down  through  the  years 
— a  memory  of  something  that  he  had  seen  in  Kitty's  eyes. 
Was  it  the  night  in  the  South  Mall;  the  streets  all  swim- 
ming with  mud  and  rain;  the  gas-lamj^s  shining  golden 
on  the  pavements;  these  two  under  one  umbrella,  and 
Kitty  suddenly  turning  her  face  to  him?  Or  was  it  the 
Sunday  morning  up  by  the  barracks;  a  spring  morning. 


SHAN  DON  BELLS.  373 

with  tlie  rooks  cawing,  and  the  air  sweet;  and  Kitty,  not 
knowing  he  was  there,  and  going  by  him,  and  then  raising 
the  tear- filled  eyes  with  astonishment  and  a  quick  glad 
light  of  love?  Kitty  had  pretty  eyes  in  that  olden  time; 
and  a  pretty  voice,  too,  whether  she  was  laughing,  or 
singing  about  the  Bells  of  Shandon,  or  only  teasing  poor 
old  Miss  Patience. 

He  rose.  To  look  over  one's  life  in  this  way,  however 
satisfied  one  may  be  with  the  existing  result,  is  a  sad  kind 
of  thing;  and  the  stream  down  there  in  the  semi-darkness 
seemed  no  longer  chuckling  and  laughing  at  the  follies 
and  dreams  of  youth,  but  rather  saying  something  of  a 
farewell  as  it  hurried  away  to  the  sea.  ^'  Farewell— far e- 
loelir     So  lives  pass  to  the  unknown  and  are  forgotten. 

He  laid  hold  of  one  of  the  bushes,  and  clambered  up 
into  the  moonliglit  again,  and  crossed  the  open  space  to 
the  wall;  then  for  a  second  he  turned  and  glanced  up  and 
down  the  little  valley,  that  lay  there  so  white  and  still. 
He  was  glad  it  had  chanced  to  be  so  beautiful  a  night. 
This  was  a  peaceful  picture  that  he  would  carry  away  in 
his  memory.  In  bygone  years  he  had  looked  forward  to 
a  solitary  keeping  of  his  tryst  with  a  shuddering  dread; 
but  what  was  there  to  dread  about  it?  It  was  a  pretty 
place;  and  he  had  awakened  some  recollections  that  had  a 
sort  of  half-pathetic  poetic  fancy  about  them.  That  Avas 
all.  He  wished  he  could  paint  the  glen  as  it  looked  now; 
but  he  thought  it  would  be  difficult  to  convey  the  sense 
of  solitude  and  remoteness  that  the  perfect  silence  pro- 
duced. 

He  mounted  the  wall  and  leaped  down  into  the  road. 

'^Well,  Master  Frank,"  said  he,  lightly,  *'I  am  sorry 
to  have  kept  you  waiting  so  long;  I  almost  think  you'll 
want  some  supper  when  you  get  back." 

But  he  found  the  boy  standing  up  in  the  carriage,  and 
looking  wonderingly  along  the  road  behind  them. 

"  Papa,"  said  he,  with  an  expression  almost  of  alarm 
on  his  face,  *^  did  you  see  her?    Did  you  see  the  lady?" 

Fitzgerald  stopped  for  a  moment:  he  was  just  about 
entering  the  carriage. 

•'  What  lady?"  he  said,  in  a  perfectly  calm  voice. 

^•'  Didn't  you  see  her?  A  lady  in  mourning,"  the  boy 
said;  and  now  he  seemed  to  be  more  reassured.  *'I 
don't  know  who  she  is.  I  don't  know  her;  but  she  came 
up  and  spoke  to  me." 


874  SHANDON  BELLS. 

His  father  regarded  him,  apparently  unable  to  say  any- 
thing; his  hand  still  grasping  the  door  of  the  carriage. 

*^She  said,  *Is  your  name  Willie?'  I  said  *No;  my 
name  is  Frank.'  Then  she  said,  'But  it  is  Fr-ank  Fitz- 
gerald, is  it  not?'  I  said  *Yes.'  Then  she  said,  *  Will 
you  let  me  kiss  you?'  and  she  was  crying  when  she  lifted 
her  veil.  And  then  she  went  away  along  the  road  back 
there." 

Fitzgerald  glanced  along  the  road;  there  was  no  one 
visible.  Then,  with  every  appearance  of  composure,  he 
stepped  into  the  carriage,  shut  the  door,  and  said,  briefly, 

*'Home,  Murtough." 

"Papa,"  said  the  boy,  presently,  "who  was  she?" 

"How  can  I  tell?    Don't  bother  me — not  at  present." 

There  was  a  strange  look  on  his  face  as  they  drove  on 
in  silence.  Frank  remembered  his  mother's  injunctions; 
when  his  father  seemed  disinclined  for  talking,  he  could 
keep  his  mouth  shut.  And  indeed  they  were  near  to  Ini- 
eheen  before  Fitzgerald  again  spoke. 

"Don't  you  see,  Frankie,"  he  said,  carelessly,  "it  is 
the  most  natural  thing  in  the  world?  Of  course  there  are 
plenty  of  visitors  alwaj^s  coming  down  from  Cork  to  the 
sea-side — to  the  villas  I  showed  you;  and  on  such  a  beau- 
tiful night  why  should  not  any  one  go  out  for  a  walk? 
Or  the  lady  who  spoke  to  you  may  belong  to  some  house 
in  the  neighborhood;  there  is  a  little  village,  Carrigha, 
not  more  than  a  quarter  of  a  mile  farther  on.  Why,  it's 
the  simplest  thing  in  the  world.  It  is  just  the  night  for 
any  one  to  come  out  for  a  stroll.  But  I  am  beginning  to 
doubt  whether  there  was  any  such  person.  You  were 
thinking  ofthe  fairies,  Frankie — wasn't  that  it?" 

"  Murtough  saw  her,  papa." 

"  Oh  well;  a  visitor  in  the  neighborhood,  no  doubt," 
he  said,  absently. 

"  But  how  did  she  know  my  name?"  said  the  boy,  still 
wondering. 

"  That's  what  she  didn't  know,"  said  his  father — 
though  he  seemed  to  be  talking  about  one  thing,  and 
thinking  about  another.  "  As  for  guessing  at  Fitzgerald 
—that  is  nothing.  It  is  simple  to  make  a  guess  like  that. 
Every  one  about  here  is  a  Fitzgerald  or  a  M'Carthy. 
That  is  nothing.  No  doubt  she  belongs  to  Carrigha. 
What  was  she  like,  did  you  notice?" 

He  spoke  with  indifference,  but  did  not  look  at  the  boy. 


SHANDON  BELLS,  375 

"N — ^no/'  tlie  small  lad  said,  doubtfully,  ''for  she  was 
crying — and — and  I  was  frightened." 

"But  she  kissed  you?" 

"Oh  yes." 

His  father  was  silent  for  some  time. 

"Perhaps  the  lady  has  lost  a  little  boy  of  about  your 
age,"  he  said,  by  and  by. 

"  Perhaps  that  is  it,"  Master  Frank  said,  thoughtfully, 
"for  she  was  dressed  all  in  black." 

Then  they  rattled  through  the  streets  of  the  little  town, 
and  drew  up  at  the  door  of  the  hotel. 

"Now,  Master  Frank,"  said  his  father,  when  they  were 
both  together  in  the  sitting-room,  "you  must  be  up  early 
to-morrow,  for  we  have  to  drive  all  the  way  to  Cappoquin, 
and  we  ought  to  be  there  as  soon  as  Mr.  Eoss." 

"To-morrow?  So  soon  as  that?  I  would  like  to  have 
stayed  some  days  at  Inisheen,  papa,"  said  Master  Frank, 
wistfully. 

"Why?" 

"  To  see  all  the  places  you  have  told  me  about.  I  would 
like  to  have  seen  the  cabin  where  Jerry  the  tailor's  hawks 
are;  and — and  the  place  where  the  bull  went  into  the  bog; 
and  mamma  said  I  was  to  be  sure  to  cut  her  a  piece  off  the 
haw  thorn- tree." 

"  What  hawthorn-tree?" 

"The  one  you  used  to  climb  up — and  the  branches 
spread  out  at  the  top;  and  you  used  to  have  a  seat  there, 
and  a  book,  and  no  one  could  see  you — " 

"  Do  you  know.  Master  Frank,  that  cutting  memorial 
bits  off  trees  and  carving  your  name  on  window-shuttei'S 
are  among  the  most  heinous  of  crimes?  And  it  would  be 
no  use  your  remaining  in  Inisheen,  and  trying  to  see  all 
these  places,  for  you  can't  get  about  easily  at  present,  poor 
chap!  No;  some  other  time  we  will  have  a  longer  stay 
here;  and  perhaps  we  will  come  over  in  the  winter;  and 
then  you  might  go  out  with  me  for  a  night  after  the  wild- 
duck;  wouldn't  that  be  fine?" 

"Oh  yes,  papa." 

"And  meanwhile  we  must  get  away  at  once  from  Ini-* 
sheen,  so  as  not  to  keep  Mr.  Ross  waiting  at  Cappoquin  or 
Lismore.     When  I  was  at  your  age  I  could  easily  get  read^ 
to  start  by  seven." 

"Do  you  mean  seven  to-morrow  morning,  papa?" 

"Yes." 


STB  SHANDON  BELLS. 

'*  Very  well.     I  will  be  ready  by  seven." 

And  still  he  lingered  about  the  room,  without  saying 
good-night. 

'*Papa,"  said  he  at  length,  ^*  when  I  told  you  about  the 
lady,  why  did  your  face  turn  so  white?" 

His  father  was  sitting  at  the  fire,  staring  into  it,  and 
did  not  hear. 

**  Come  and  say  good-night,  my  lad,"  he  said,  presently, 
"  and  I  will  call  you  at  half-past  six  if  you  are  not  up. 
You  are  sure  you  won't  have  any  supper?  Very  well, 
good-night." 

"  But  I  was  asking  you,  papa — " 

**  Asking  me  what?" 

**  Why  did  your  face  turn  so  white  when  you  were  in 
the  road,  and  I  told  you  I  had  seen  the  lady?" 

"Nonsense — nonsense!  Your  head  has  got  filled  with 
fancies  to-night,  my  lad — you  were  too  close  to  Elfin-land, 
perhaps.     Good-night;  and  don't  dream  of  Don  Fierna." 

"  Good-night,  papa." 

The  next  morning  was  again  fine;  and  they  had  every 
prospect  of  a'beautiful  drive  along  the  banks  of  the  richly- 
wooded  river.  And  when  Ma-ster  Frank,  seated  in  the 
landau,  and  .having  his  sprained  ankle  carefully  propped 
and  cushioned,  understood  that  he  was  to  see  something 
more  of  the  Blackwater,  he  almost  forgot  his  disappoint- 
ment over  missing  the  various  places  at  Inisheen  he  had 
expected  to  visit. 

**  Of  course,  papa,"  said  he,  "you'll  show  me  the  very 
spot  where  you  fell  in  and  lost  the  salmon?" 

"We  shall  go  near  there,  anyway,"  said  his  father,  as 
they  started,  and  drove  away  through  the  town. 

"And  you'll  show  me  the  moor-hen's  nest,  won't  you?" 

"What  moor-hen's  nest?"  for,  indeed,  this  boy's  mem- 
ory was  wonderful. 

"Don't  you  remember,  papa,  you  told  me  about  a 
moor-hen  that  had  got  a  bit  of  wicker-work  by  chance  and 
had  pieced  it  into  her  nest?  I  should  like  to  see  that." 

"  Bless  the  boy!  do  you  imagine  that  the  nest  is  in  ex- 
istence yet?  All  these  things  that  I  have  told  you  about 
happened  years  and  years  ago." 

They  were  now  away  from  the  houses;  and  he  rose  in 
the  carriage,  and  turned  to  have  a  last  look  at  the  place 
they  were  leaving.     Inisheen  looked  fair  enough  in  the 


SHANDON  BELLS.  377 

early  liglifc.  The  shallow  gi-een  waters  of  the  bay,  the 
boats  by  the  quays,  the  Town-hall  with  Its  golden  cock, 
and  the  terraced  hill  with  its  gardens  were  all  shining  in 
the  morning  sun;  and  far  beyond  the  harbor  tlie  pale-blue 
sea  was  broken  here  and  there  with  sharp  glints  of  white, 
for  there  was  a  fresh  breeze  blowing  in  from  the  south. 
When  he  sat  down  again  there  was  an  absent  look  on  his 
face. 

''That  moor-hen's  nest,  Master  Frankie,"  said  he,  re- 
garding the  thoughtful  eyes  of  the  boy,  ''  belongs  to  a 
time  long  gone  by — and  things  change.  Poor  lad!  that 
is  a  lesson  you  will  have  to  learn  for  yourself  some  day." 


THE   E]S"D. 


YOLANDE. 


V^ILLIAM    BLACK. 

Author  of  "A  Princess  op  Thule,*'  "  Strange  Adventures  of  a  Phaeton, 
'•A  Daughter  of  Heth,"  Etc. 


NEW  YORK : 
JOHN  B.  ALDEN,  PUBLISHER, 

1883. 


YOL  ANDE. 


CHAPTER  I. 

EELEASED  FROM  CHATEAU  COLD  FLOORS. 

Latb  one  evening  in  April,  in  the  private  sitting-room 
on  the  first  floor  of  a  hotel  in  Albemarle  Street,  a  member 
of  the  British  House  of  Commons  wsls  ^y^^S  t>ack  in  an  easy- 
chair,  having  just  begun  to  read,  in  an  afternoon  journal, 
an  article  about  himself.  He  was  a  man  approaching  fifty, 
with  what  the  Scotch  call  "  a  salt-water  face  "  ;  that  is  to  say 
a  face  tanned  and  reddened  with  wind  and  weather,  sharp 
of  feature,  and  with  hair  become  j^rematurely  quite  silver 
white.  At  a  first  glance  jie  seemed  to  have  the  air  of  an 
imperative,  eager,  aggressive  person  ;  but  that  impression 
was  modified  when  by  any  accident  you  met  his  eyes,  which 
were  nervous,  shrinking,  and  uncertain.  Walking  in  the 
street,  he  rarely  saw  any  one ;  perhaps  he  was  too  pre- 
occupied with  public  affairs ;  perhaps  he  was  sensitively 
afraid  of  not  being  able  to  recognize  half-remembered  faces. 
When  sitting  alone,  slight  noises  made  him  start. 

This  was  what  the  man  wuth  the  thin  red  face  and  the 
silver  white  hair  was  reading  :— 

"  By  his  amendment  of  last  night,  which,  as  every  one 
anticipated,  was  defeated  by  an  overwhelming  majority,  the 
member  for  Slagpool  has  once  more  called  attention  to  the 
unique  position  which  he  occupies  in  contemporary  politics. 
Consistent  only  in  his  hopeless  inconsistency,  and  only  to  be 
reckoned  on  for  the  wholly  unexpected,  one  wonders  for 


3  YOLANDE. 

what  particular  purpose  the  electors  of  Slagpool  ever  thought 
of  sending  Mr.  Winterbourne  to  Parliament,  unless,  Jndeed, 
it  were  to  make  sure  that  their  town  should  be  sufficiently 
often  heard  of  in  the  councils  of  the  nation.  A  politician 
who  is  at  once  a  furious  Jingo  in  foreign  affairs  and  an  ultra- 
revolutionary  at  home  ;  an  upholder  of  the  divine  rights 
and  liberties  of  the  multitude,  who  at  the  same  time  would, 
if  he  could,  force  them  to  close  every  public-house  in  the 
country,  alike  on  Sunday  and  Saturday  ;  a  virulent  oppo- 
nent of  Vivisection,  who  nevertheless  champions  the  Game 
Laws,  and  who  is  doubtful  about  the  Abolition  of  Capital 
Punishment,  probably  because  he  would  like  to  reserve  to 
himself  the  right  of  hanging  poachers  :  it  may  be  conceded 
that  such  a  member  of  Parliament  if  he  is  not  to  be  counted 
on  by  any  party,  or  by  any  section  or  sub-section  of  any  party 
— if,  indeed,  he  is  ordinarily  a  good  deal  more  dangerous  to 
his  allies  than  to  his  enemies — may  at  least  do  some  service 
to  his  constituents  by  continually  reminding  the  country  of 
their  existence,  while  ministering  on  the  same  occasions  to 
his  own  inordinate  vanity.  For  it  is  to  this — it  is  to  an  in- 
ordinate vanity,  spurred  on  by  an  irritable  and  capri- 
cious temper — that  we  must  look  for  the  cause  of  those 
spasmodic  championships  and  petulant  antagonisms,  those 
erratic  appearances  and  disappearances,  those  sudden  al- 
liances, and  incomprehensible  desertions,  which  have  made 
of  the  member  for  Slagpool  the  very  whirligig  and  teetotum 
of  modern  English  politics." 

When  he  had  got  thus  far  he  stopped. 

"  It  sounds  like  the  writing  %i  a  young  man,"  he  was 
thinking.  '*  But  perhaps  it  is  true.  Perhaps  that  is  what 
I  am  like.  The  public  press  is  a  mirror.  I  wonder  if  that 
is  how  I  appear  to  Yolande  ?  " 

He  heard  a  footstep  outside,  and  immediately  thrust 
away  the  newspaper  from  him,  face  downward.  The  next 
moment  the  door  of  the  room  was  opened,  and  the  frame- 
work of  the  door  became  the  framework  of  a  living  picture. 
Mr.  Winterbourne's  face  lightened  up  with  pleasure. 

The  picture  framed  by  the  doorway  was  that  of  a  young 
girl  of  eighteen,  singularly  tall  and  strikingly  fair,  who  stood 
there  hesitating,  timid,  half  laughing. 

"  Look,"  she  said.     "  Is  it  your  idea ?  " 

*'  Is  it  your  idea  I  "  he  repeated,  peevishly.  "  Yolande, 
you  are  getting  worse  and  worse  instead  of  better.  Why 
don't  you  say,  'Is  this  what  you  meant?'  " 


YOLANDE.  3 

"Is  this  what  you  meant?"  she  said,  promptly,  and 
with  a  slight  foreign  accent. 

His  eyes  could  not  dwell  on  her  for  two  seconds  together 
and  be  vexed. 

"Come  to  the  mirror,  child,  and  put  on  your  hat,  and 
let  me  see  the  whole  thing  properly." 

She  did  as  she  was  bid,  stepping  over  to  the  fireplace, 
and  Rtanding  before  the  old-fashioned  mirror  as  she  adjus- 
ted the  wide-brimmed  Rubens  hat  over  the  ruddy  gold  of 
her  hair.  For  this  was  an  experiment  in  costume,  and  it 
had  some  suggestion  of  novelty.  The  plain  gown  was  of  a 
uniform  cream  white,  of  some  rough  towel-like  substance 
that  seemed  to  cling  naturally  to  the  tall  and  graceful 
figure  ;  and  it  was  touched  here  and  there  with  black  velvet, 
and  the  tight  sleeves  had  black  velvet  cuffs :  while  the 
white  Rubens  hat  had  also  a  band  of  black  velvet  round 
the  bold  sweep  of  the  brim.  For  the  rest,  she  wore  no 
ornaments  but  a  thick  silver  necklace  round  her  throat,  and 
a  plain  silver  belt  round  her  waist,  the  belt  being  a  broad 
zone  of  solid  metal,  untouched  by  any  graver. 

But  any  one  who  had  seen  this  young  English  girl 
standing  there,  her  arms  uplifted,  her  hands  busy  with  her 
hat,  would  not  have  wasted  much  attention  on  the  details 
of  her  costume.  Her  face  was  interesting,  even  at  an  age 
when  gentleness  and  sweetness  are  about  the  only  charac- 
teristics that  one  expects  to  meet  with.  And  although  no 
mere  catalogue  of  her  features — the  calm  clear  brow  ;  the 
wide-apart  gray-blue  eyes ;  the  aquiline  nose  ;  the  unusu- 
ally short  upper  lip  and  beautiful  rounded  chin  ;  her  soft 
and  wavy  hair  glistening  in  its  ruddy  gold  ;  and  her  com- 
plexion, that  was  in  reality  excessively  fair,  only  that  an 
abundance  of  freckles,  as  well  as  the  natural  rose-color 
of  youth  in  her  cheeks,  spoke  of  her  not  being  much 
afraid  of  the  sun  and  of  the  country  air — although  no  mere 
enumeration  of  these  things  is  at  all  likely  to  explain  the 
unnamable  grace  that  attracted  people  to  her,  yet  there  was 
at  least  one  expression  of  her  face  that  cpuld  be  accounted 
for.  That  unusually  short  up})er  lip,  that  has  been  noted 
above,  gave  aslight  pensive  droop  to  the  moutii  whenever  her 
features  were  in  repose;  so  "that  when  she  suddenly  looked 
up  with  her  wide  wondering,  timid,  and  yet  trustful 
eyes,  there  was  something  pathetic  and  wistful  there. 
It  was  an  expression  absolutely  without  intention  ;  it  was 
inexplicable,  and  also  winning  ;  it  seemed  to  convey  a  sort 


4  YOLANDE. 

of  involuntary  unconscious  appeal  for  gentleness  and  friend- 
ship,  but  beyond  that  it  had  no  significance  whatsoever.  It 
had  notliing  to  do  witli  any  sorrow,  suffered  or  foreshadowed. 
So  far  the  girls  existence  had  been  passed  among  the  rosea 
and  lilies  of  life  ;  the  only  serious  grievance  she  had  ever 
known  was  the  winter  coldness  of  the  floors  in  the  so-called 
chateau  in  Brittany  where  she  had  been  educated.  And 
now  she  was  emancipated  from  the  discipline  of  the  Chateau 
Cold  Floors,  as  she  had  named  the  place ;  and  the  world 
was  fair  around  her ;  and  every  day  was  a  day  of  gladness 
to  her  from  the  first  "  Good-morning  *'  over  the  breakfast 
table  to  the  very  last  of  all  the  last  and  lingering  "  Good- 
nights  "  that  had  to  be  said  before  she  would  let  her  father 
go  down  to  put  in  an  appearance  at  the  House. 

This  must  be  admitted  about  Yolande  Winterbourne, 
however,  that  she  had  two  very  distinct  manners.  With 
her  friends  and  intimates  she  was  playful,  careless,  and  not 
without  a  touch  of  humorous  wilfulness ;  but  with  stran- 
gers, and  especially  with  strangers  abroad,  she  could  assume 
in  the  most  astonishing  fashion  the  extreme  coldness  and 
courtesy  of  an  English  miss.  Remember,  she  was  tall,  fair, 
and  English-looking;  that,  when  all  the  pretty,  timid  trust- 
fulness and  merriment  were  out  of  them,  her  eyes  were  wide 
apart  and  clear  and  contemplative ;  and  further,  that  the 
good  dames  of  the  Chateau  Cold  Floui's  had  instructed  her 
as  to  how  she  should  behave  when  she  went  travelling  with 
her  father,  which  happened  pretty  often.  At  tlie  table 
d'hote^  with  her  father  present,  she  was  as  light-hearted,  as 
talkative,  as  pleasant  as  any  one  could  wish.  In  the  music- 
room  after  dinner,  or  on  the  deck  of  a  steamer,  or  anywhere, 
with  her  father  by  accident  absent,  she  was  the  English 
miss  out  and  out,  and  no  aside  conversations  were  possible. 
"  So  proud,  so  reserved,  so  English,"  thought  many  an 
impressionable  young  foreigner  who  had  been  charmed  with 
the  bright,  variable,  vivacious  face  as  it  had  regarded  him 
across  the  white  table  cover  and  the  flowers.  Yolande'a 
face  could  become  very  calm,  even  austere  on  occasion. 

"  Is  it  what  you  meant  ?  '*'  she  repeated,  turning  to  him 
from  the  mirror.     Her  face  was  bright  enough  now. 

"  Oh,  yes,"  said  he,  rather'reluctantly.  "  I — I  thought 
it  would  suit  you.  But  jou  see,  Yolande, — you  see — it  is 
very  pretty — but  for  London — to  drive  in  the  Park — in 
London — wouldn't  it  be  a  little  conspicuous  ?  " 


YOLANDE.  5 

Her  eyes  were  filled  with  astonisliment ;  his  rather  wan- 
dered away  nervously  to  the  table. 

"  But,  papa,  I  don't  understand  you !  Everywhere  else 
you  are  always  wishing  me  to  wear  the  brightest  and 
lightest  of  colors.  I  may  wear  what  I  please — and  that  is 
only  to  please  you,  that  is  what  I  care  about  only — any- 
where else :  if  we  are  going  for  a  walk  along  the  Lung' 
Arno,  or  if  we  go  for  a  drive  in  the  Prater,  yes,  and  at  Oat- 
land  Park,  too,  I  can  not  please  you  w^ith  enough  bright 
colors  ;  but  here  in  London  the  once  or  twice  of  my 
visits — " 

"Do  speak  English,  Yolande,"  said  he,  sharlply 
**Don  t  hurry  so." 

"The  once  or  twice  I  am  in  London,  oh,  no  !  Every- 
thing is  too  conspicuous  !  Is  it  the  smoke,  papa.  And  this 
time  I  was  so  anxious  to  please  you  ! — all  your  own  ideas  ; 
not  mine  at  all.  But  what  do  I  care  ?  "  She  tossed  the 
Rubens  hat  on  to  the  couch  that  was  near,  "  Come  !  What 
is  there  about  a  dress  ?  It  will  do  for  some  other  place, 
not  so  dark  and  smoky  as  London.  Come — sit  down  papa 
— you  do  not  wish  to  go  away  to  the  House  yet  !  You  have 
not  finished  about  Godfrey  of  Bouillon." 

•'  I  am  not  going  to  read  any  more  Gibbon  to  you  to- 
night, Yolande,"  said  he  ;  but  he  sat  down,  all  the  same  in 
the  easy-chair,  and  she  placed  herself  on  the  hearthrug  be- 
fore him,  so  that  the  soft  ruddy  gold  of  her  hair  touched  his 
knees.     It  was  a  pretty  head  to  stroke. 

"  Oh,  do  you  think  I  am  so  anxious  about  Gibbon,  then  ?  " 
she  said,  lightly,  as  she  settled  herself  into  a  comfortable 
position.  "  No.  ISTot  at  all.  I  do  not  want  any  more  Gib- 
bon, I  want  you.  And  you  said  this  morning  there  would 
be  nothing  but  stupidity  in  the  House  to-night." 

"  Well,  now.  Miss  Inveigler,  just  listen  to  this,"  said  he, 
laying  hold  of  her  by  both  her  small  ears.  "  Don't  you  think 
it  prudent  of  me  to  show  up  as  often  as  I  can  m  the  House — 
especially  when  there  is  a  chance  for  a  division — so  tliat  my 
good  friends  in  Slagpool  mayn't  begin  to  grumble  about  my 
being  away  so  frequently  ?  And  why  am  I  away  ?  Why  do 
I  neglect  my  duties  Why  do  I  let  the  British  Empire  glide 
on  to  its  doom?  Why,  but  that  I  may  take  a  wretched, 
schoolgirl — a  wretched,  small-brained  impertinent,  prattling 
schoolgirl — for  her  holidays,  and  show  her  things  she  can't 
understand  and  plough  through  museums  and  picture- 
jj^aileries  to   filla  mind  that  is  no  better  than  a  sieve?    Just 


6  YOLANDE. 

think  of  it.  The  British  Empire  going  headlong  to  the  mis- 
chief all  for  the  sake  of  an  empty-headed  schoolgirl  !  " 

"  Do  you  know,  \  apa,  I  am  very  glad  to  hear  that,"  she 
said,  quietly. 

"  Glad  are  you  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  said  she,  nestling  closer  to  him  ;  "  for  now  I 
think  my  dream  will  soon  be  coming  true." 

"Your  dream?" 

**  My  dream — the  ambition  of  my  life,"  said  she,  serious- 
ly. "  It  is  all  I  wish  for  and  hope  for.  Nothing  else — noth- 
ing else  in  the  world." 

"  Bless  us  all !  "  said  he,  with  a  touch  of  irony.  "  What 
wonderful  ambition  is  this?  " 

*'  It  is  to  make  myself  indispensable  to  you,"  she  said, 
simply. 

He  took  his  hand  from  her  ears  and  put  them  on  her  hair, 
for  there  were  some  bits  of  curls  and  semi-ringlets  about  her 
neck  that  wanted  smoothing. 

"  You  are  not  indispensable,  then  ?  "  said  he. 

"  Listen  now,  papa ;  it  is  your  turn,"  she  said.  "  Surely 
it  is  a  shame  that  you  have  wasted  so  much  time  on  me, 
through  so  many  years,  always  coming  to  sec  me  and  take 
me  away,  perhaps  not  a  week  between,  and  I  am  glad  enough, 
for  it  was  always  expectation  and  expectation,  and  my  things 
always  ready,  and  you,  poor  papa,  wasting  all  your  time, 
and  always  on  the  route  ;  and  that  such  a  long  way  to 
Rennes.  Even  at  Oatlands  Park  the  same — up  and  down, 
up  and  down,  by  rail,  and  then  long  beautiful  days  that  were 
very  good  to  me,  but  were  stupid  to  you  when  you  were 
thinking  of  the  House  all  the  time.  Very  well,  now,  papa; 
I  have  more  sense  now;  I  have  been  thinking:  I  want 
to  be  indispensable  to  you  ;  I  want  to  be  in  London  with 
you  always ;  and  you  shall  never  have  to  run  away  idling, 
either  to  the  Continent  or  to  Oatlands  Park  ;  and  you  shall 
never  have  to  think  that  I  am  wearying  for  you,  when  I  am 
always  with  you  in  London.  That  is  it  now  ;  that  I  wish 
to  be  your  private  secretary." 

Iler  demand  once  made,  she  turned  up  her  face  to  him  ; 
he  averted  his  eyes. 

"  No,  no,  Yolande,"  he  said,  hastily,  and  even  nervously. 
"  London  won't  do  for  you  ;  it — it  wouldn't  do  at  all.  Don't 
think  of  it  even." 

"Papa,"sriid  she,  "what  other  member  of  Parliament, 
with  so  much  business   as   you   have,   is  without  a  private 


YOLANDE,  1 

secretary?  Why  should  you  answer  all  those  letters  your 
self  ?  For  me,  I  will  learn  politics  very  quickly  ;  1  am 
studying  hard  ;  at  the  chateau  I  translated  all  your  speeches 
into  Italian  for  exercises.  And  just  to  think  that  you  hav«3 
never  allowed  me  to  hear  you  speak  in  the  House!  When 
I  come  to  London — yes,  for  five  minutes  or  half  an  hour  at 
a  time — the  ladies  whom  I  see  will  not  believe  that  1  have 
never  once  been  in  the — the  what  is  it  called  ? — for  the 
ladies  to  listen  in  the  House  ?  No,  they  cannot  believe  it. 
Thoy  know  all  the  speakers ;  they  have  heard  all  the  great 
men  ;  they  spend  the  whole  of  the  evening  there,  and  have 
many  come  to  see  them — all  in  politics.  Well,  you  see, 
papa,  what  a  burden  it  would  be  taking  off  your  hands. 
You  would  not  always  have  to  come  home  and  dine  with 
me,  and  waste  so  much  of  the  evening  in  reading  to  me — no, 
I  should  be  at  the  House,  listening  to  you,  and  understand- 
ing everything.  Then  all  the  day  here,  busy  with  your 
letters.  Oh,  I  assure  you  I  would  make  prettier  compli- 
ments to  your  constituents  than  you  could  think  of;  I 
would  make  all  the  people  of  Slagpool  who  write  to  you 
think  you  were  the  very  best  member  they  could  choose. 
And  then — <>hen  I  should  be  indispensable  to  you." 

"You  are  indispensable  to  me,  Yokinde.  You  are  my 
life.     What  else  do  I  care  for?  "  he  said,  hurriedly. 

"  You  will  pardon  me,  papa,  if  I  say  it  is  foolish.  Oh,  to 
think  now  !  One's  life  is  more  important  than  that,  when 
you  have  the  country  to  guard." 

"  They  seem  to  think  there,"  said  he,  with  a  sardonic 
smile,  and  he  glanced  at  the  newspaper,  "  that  the  country 
would  be  better  off  without  me." 

It  was  too  late  to  recall  this  unfortunate  speech.  He 
had  thrust  aside  the  newspaper  as  she  entered,  dreading 
that  by  accident  she  might  see  the  article,  and  be  wounded 
by  it;  but  now  there  was  no  help  for  it;  the  moment  he 
had  spoken  she  reached  over  and  took  up  the  journal,  and 
tound  her  father's  name  staring  her  in  the  face. 

"  Is  it  true,  Yolande  ?  "  said  he,  with  a  laugh.  "  Is  that 
what  I  am  like  ?  " 

.  As  she  read,  Yolande  tried  to  be  grandly  indifferent — 
even  contemptuous.  Was  it  for  her,  who  wished  to  be  of 
assistance  to  her  father  in  public  affairs,  to  mind  what  was 
said  about  him  in  a  leading  article  ?  And  then,  in  spite  of 
her^el^  tears  slowly  ros»3  ni)d  filled  the  soft  gray-blue  eyes, 
ihouL'h  she  kept  her  he/id  dour),  vainly  trying  to  hide  them 


S  YOLANDS, 

And  then  mortification  at  her  weakness  made  her  angry, 
and  she  crushed  up  the  paper  twice  and  thrice,  and  hurled 
it  into  the  fire ;  nay,  she  seized  hold  of  the  poker  and  thrust 
and  drove  the  offending  journal  into  the  very  heart  of  the 
coals.  And  then  she  rose,  proud  and  indignant,  but  with 
her  eyes  a  little  wet,  and  with  a  toss  of  her  pretty  'lead,  she 
said  : — 

"  It  is  enough  time  to  waste  over  such  folly.  Perhaps 
the  poor  man  has  to  support  a  family ;  but  he  need  not 
write  such  stupidity  as  that.  Now,  papa,  what  shall  I  play 
for  you  ?  " 

She  was  going  to  the  piano.     But  he  had  risen  also. 

"No,  no,  Yolande.  I  must  be  off  to  the  House.  There 
is  just  a  chance  of  a  division  ;  and  perhaps  I  may  be  able  to 
get  in  a  few  words  somewhere,  just  to  show  the  Slagpool 
people  that  I  am  not  careering  about  the  Continent  witli  my 
schoolgirl.  No,  no ;  I  will  see  you  safe  in  your  room, 
Yolande ;  and  your  lamp  lit,  and  everything  snug ;  then — 
good-night." 

"  Already  ?  "  she  said,  with  a  great  disappointment  in 
her  face.     "  Already  ?  " 

"  Child,  child,  the  affairs  of  this  mighty  empire — " 

"  What  do  I  care  about  the  empire  !  "  she  said. 

He  stood  and  regarded  her  calmly. 

"  You  are  a  nice  sort  of  a  person  to  wish  to  be  private 
secretary  to  a  member  of  Parliament !  " 

"  Oh,  but  if  you  will  only  sit  down  for  five  minutes, 
papa,"  she  said,  piteously,  "  I  could  explain  such  a  lot  to 
you — " 

"  Oh  yes,  I  know.  I  know  very  well.  About  the  tem- 
per madame  was  in  when  the  curls  fell  out  of  her  box.*' 

"Papa,  it  is  you  who  make  me  frivolous.  I  wish  to  be 
serious — " 

"  I  am  going,  Yolande." 

She  interposed : 

"  No.     Not  until  you  say,  '  I  love  you.'  '* 

"  I  love  you." 

"  '  And  I  forgive  you.'" 

*'  And  I  forgive  you." 

"  Everything  ?  " 

''  Everything." 

"And  I  may  go  out  to-morrow  morning,  as  early  as  ever 
I  like,  to  buy  some  flowers  for  the  breakfast  table?  " 

But  this  was  hard  to  grant. 


YOLAN^DE.  9 

"I  don't  like  your  goincf  out  by  yourself,  Yolande,"  said 
he,  rather  hesitatingly.  "You  can  order  tiowera.  You 
can  ring  and  tell  the  waiter — " 

"  The  waiter  !  "  she  exclaimed.  "  What  am  I  of  use  for 
then,  if  it  is  a  waiter  who  will  choose  flowers  for  your  break- 
fast table,  papa  ?     It  is  not  far  to  Convent  Garden.'* 

"  Take  Jane  with  you,  then." 

«0h  yes." 

So  that  was  settled  ;  and  he  went  upstairs  with  her  to 
see  that  her  little  silver  reading-lamp  was  properly  lit ;  and 
then  he  bade  her  the  last  real  good-night.  When  he  returned 
to  the  sitting-room  for  his  hat  and  coat  there  was  a  pleased 
and  contented  look  on  his  face. 

"Poor  Yolande  !  "  he  was  thinking  ;  "  she  is  more  shut 
up  here  than  in  the  country ;  but  she  will  soon  have  the 
liberty  of  Oatlands  Park  again." 

He  had  just  put  on  his  coat  and  hat,  and  was  giving  a 
last  look  round  the  room  to  see  if  there  was  anything  he 
ought  to  take  with  him,  when  there  was  a  loud,  sharp  crash 
at  the  window.  A  hundred  splinters  of  glass  fell  on  to  the 
floor ;  a  stone  rolled  over  and  over  to  the  fireplace.  J  fe 
seemed  bewildered  only  for  a  second  ;  and  perhaps  it  was 
the  startling  sound  that  had  made  his  face  grow  suddenly 
of  a  deadly  pallor;  the  next  second — noiselessly  and  quickly 
— he  had  stolen  from  the  room,  and  was  hurriedly  descend- 
ing the  stair  to  the  hall  of  the  hotel. 


CHAPTER  II. 

THE    SHADOW    BEHIND. 


The  head  waiter  was  in  the  hall,  alone,  and  staring  out 
through  the  glass  door.  When  he  heard  some  one  behind 
him  he  turned  quickly,  and  there  was  a  vague  alarm  in  his 
fee 

"  The — the  lady,  sir,  has  been  here  again." 
Mr.  Winterbourne  paid  no  heed  to  him,  passed  him 
hastily,  and    went  out.     The   lamplight  showed  a  figure 
standing  there  on  the  pavement — the  figure  of  a  tall  woman, 
dark  and  pnlc,  who  bad  astranore,  dazetl  look  in  her  eyes. 


10  YOLANDE. 

"  I  thought  Fd  bring  you  out !  "  she  said  tauntingly,  and 
with  a  slight  laugh. 

"  What  do  you  want?  "  he  said,  quickly,  and  under  iiis 
breatli.  "  Have  you  no  shame,  woman  ?  Come  away. 
Tell  me  what  you  want." 

"  You  know  what  I  want,"  she  said  sullenly.  "  I  want 
no  more  lies."  .Then  an  angrier  light  blazed  up  in  the  im- 
passive, emaciated  face.  "  Who  has  driven  me  to  it,  if  I 
have  to  break  a  window  ?  I  want  no  more  lies  and  hidings. 
I  want  you  to  keep  your  promise ;  and  if  I  hare  to  break 
every  window  in  the  House  of  Commons,  I  will  let  every- 
body know.     Whose  fault  is  it  ?  " 

But  her  anger  seemed  to  die  away  as  rapidly  as  it  had 
arisen.     A  dull,  vague,  absent  look  returned  to  her  face. 

*'  It  is  not  my  fault." 

"  What  madness  hare  you  got  hold  of  now  ?  "  he  said, 
in  the  same  low  and  nervous  voice ;  and  all  his  anxiety 
seemed  to  be  to  get  her  away  from  the  hotel.  "  Come 
along  and  tell  me  what  you  want.  You  want  me  to  keep 
my  promise — to  you,  in  this  condition?" 

"  It  is  not  my  fault,"  she  repeated,  in  a  listless  kind  of 
way ;  and  now  she  was  quite  obediently  and  peaceably 
following  him,  and  he  was  walking  toward  Piccadilly,  his 
head  bent  down. 

"  I  suppose  I  can  guess  who  sent  you,"  he  said,  watch- 
ing her  narrowly.  "  I  suppose  it  was  not  for  nothing  you 
came  to  make  an  exhibition  of  yourself  in  the  public  streets. 
They  asked  you  to  go  and  get  some  money?  " 

This  seemed  to  put  a  new  idea  into  her  head  ;  perhaps 
that  had  been  his  intent. 

"  Yes.  1  will  take  some  money  if  you  like,"  she  said, 
absently.  *'  They  are  my  only  friends  now — my  only 
friends.  They  have  been  kind  to  me  :  they  don't  cheat  me 
with  lies  and  promises ;  they  don't  put  me  oft*  and  turn  me 
away  when  I  ask  for  them.  Yes,  I  will  take  them  some 
money." 

And  then  she  laughed — a  short,  triumphant  laugh. 

"  I  discovered  the  way  to  bring  some  one  out,"  she 
said,  apparently  to  herself. 

By  this  time  they  had  reached  the  corner  of  Piccadilly, 
and  as  a  four-wheeled  cab  happened  to  be  passing,  he 
stopped  it,  and  himself  opened  the  door.  She  made  no  re- 
monstrance ;  she  seemed  ready  to  do  anything  he  wished. 

"  Here  is  some  money.     I  will  pay  the  driver." 


rOLANDE.  11 

She  got  into  the  cab  quite  submissively  and  the  man  was 
given  the  address,  and  paid.  Then  the  vehicle  was  drive¥ 
off,  and  he  was  left  standing  on  the  pavement,  still  some- 
what bewildered,  and  not  conscious  how  his  hands  were 
trembling. 

He  stood  uncertain  only  for  a  second  or  so ;  then  he 
walked  rapidly  back  to  the  hotel. 

**  Has  Miss  Winterbourne's  maid  gone  to  bed  yet  ?  "  he 
asked  of  the  landlady. 

"  Oh  no,  sir  ;  I  should  think  not  sir,"  the  buxom  person 
answered  :  she  did  not  observe  that  his  face  was  pale  and 
his  eyes  nervous. 

"  Will  you  please  tell  her,  then,  that  we  shall  be  going 
down  to  Oatlands  Park  again  to-morrow  morning?  She 
must  have  everything  ready,  but  she  is  not  to  disturb  Miss 
Winterbourne  to-night." 

"  Very  well,  sir." 

Then  he  went  into  the  coffee-room,  and  found  the  head 
waiter. 

**  Look  here,"  said  he  (with  his  eyes  averted)  ;  "  I  sup- 
pose you  can  get  a  man  to  put  a  pane  of  glass  in  the  window 
of  our  sitting-room — the  first  thing  in  the  morning  ?  There 
has  been  some  accident,  I  suppose.  You  can  have  it  done 
before  Miss  Winterbourne  comes  down,  I  mean  ?  " 

He  slipped  a  sovereign  into  the  waiter's  hand. 

"  I  think  so,  sir.     Oh  yes,  sir." 

"  You  must  try  to  have  it  done  before  Miss  Winter- 
bourne comes  down." 

He  stood  for  a  moment,  apparently  listening  if  there  was 
any  sound  upstairs ;  and  then  he  opened  the  door  again 
and  went  out.  Very  slowly  he  walked  away  through  the 
lamp-Ht  streets,  seeing  absolutely  nothing  of  the  passers-by, 
or  of  the  rattling  cabs  and  carriages :  and  although  he  bent 
his  steps  Westminister-ward,  it  was  certainly  not  the  affairs 
of  the  nation  that  had  hold  of  his  mind.  Rather  he  was 
thinking  of  that  beautiful  fair  young  life — that  young  life 
go  carefully  and  tenderly  cherished  and  guarded,  and  all 
unconscious  of  this  terrible  black  shadow  behind  it.  The 
irony  of  it !  It  was  this  very  night  that  Yolande  had 
chosen  to  reveal  to  him  her  secret  hopes  and  ambition :  she 
was  to  be  always  with  him  :  she  was  to  be  "  indispensable  "  ; 
the  days  of  her  banishment  were  to  be  now  left  behind  ;  and 
these  two,  father  and  daughter,  were  to  be  inseparable  com- 
panions henceforth  and   forever.     And  his  reply  ?    As  he 


12  YOLANDE, 

walked  along  the  ha^f-deserted  pavements,  anxiously  revolv* 
mg  many  things,  and  dreaming  many  dreams  about  what  the 
future  might  have  in  store  for  lier,  and  regarding  the  trouble 
and  terrible  care  that  haunted  his  own  life,  the  final  sum- 
ming up  of  all  his  doubts  and  fears  resolved  itself  into  this  : 
If  only  Yolande  were  married  !  The  irony  of  it !  She  had 
besought  him,  out  of  her  love  for  him,  and  out  of  her  grati- 
tude for  his  watchful  and  unceasing  care  of  her,  that  she 
should  be  admitted  into  a  closer  companionship  ;  that  she 
should  become  his  constant  attendant,  and  associate,  and 
friend ;  and  his  answer  was  to  propose  to  hand  her  over  to 
another  guardianship  altogether — the  guardianship  of  a 
stranger.     If  only  Yolande  were  married ! 

The  light  was  burning  on  the  clock  tower,  and  so  he 
knew  the  House  was  still  sitting  ;  but  he  had  no  longer  any 
intention  of  joining  in  any  debate  that  might  be  going  for- 
ward. When  he  passed  into  the  House  (and  more  than 
ever  he  seemed  to  wish  to  avoid  the  eyes  of  strangers)  it 
was  to  seek  out  his  friend  John  Shorthands,  whose  rough 
common-sense  and  blunt  counsel  had  before  now  stood  him 
in  good  stead  and  served  to  brace  up  his  unstrung  nerves. 
The  tall,  corpulent,  big-headed  iron-master — who  also  rep- 
resented a  northern  constituency — he  at  length  found  in  the 
smoking-room,  with  two  or  three  companions,  who  were 
seated  round  a  small  table,  and  busy  with  cigars  and  brandy 
and  soda.  Winterbourne  touched  his  friend  lightly  on  the 
shoulder. 

''  Can  you  come  outside  for  a  minute?  " 
*'  All  right." 

It  was  a  beautiful,  clear,  mild  night,  and  seated  on  the 
benches  on  the  Terrace  there  were  several  groups  of  people 
— among  them  two  or  three  ladies,  who  had  no  doubt  been 
glad  to  leave  the  stuffy  Chamber  to  have  tea  or  lemonade 
brought  them  in  the  open,  the  while  they  chatted  with  their 
friends,  and  regarded  the  silent,  dark  river  and  the  lights  of 
the  Embankment  and  Westminster  Bridge.  As  Winter- 
bourne  passed  them,  he  could  not  but  think  of  Yolande'a 
complaint  that  she  had  never  even  once  been  in  the  House 
of  Commons.  These  were,  no  doubt,  the  daughters  of  wives 
or  sisters  of  members  :  why  should  not  Yolande  also  b« 
sitting  there  ?  It  would  have  been  pleasant  for  him  to  come 
out  and  talk  to  her — pleasanter  than  listening  to  a  dull  de- 
bate. Would  Yolande  have  wondered  at  the  strange  night 
picture — the  broad   black  river,  ail   quiveriuG:  with    ijoldeij 


YOLANDE.  18 

reflections ;  the  lights  on  the  bridge  ;  the  shadowy  grandeur 
of  tliis  great  building  reaching  far  overhead  into  the  starlit 
skies  ?     Others  were  there  ;     why  not  she? 

The  Terrace  of  the  House  of  Commons  is  at  night  a 
somewhat  dusky  promenade,  when  there  does  not  happen 
to  be  moonlight ;  but  John  Shortlands  had  sharp  eyes  ;  and 
lie  instantly  guessed  from  his  friend's  manner,  that  something 
had  happened. 

"  More  trouble  ?  "  said  he,  regarding  him. 

"  Yes,"  said  the  other.  "  Well,  I  don't  mind— I  don't 
mind,  as  far  as  I  am  concerned.     It  is  no  new  thing." 

But  he  sighed,  in  spite  of  his  resigned  way  of  speech. 

"  I  have  told  you  all  along,  Winterbourne,  that  you 
brought  it  on  yourself.  You  should  ha'  taken  the  bull  by 
the  horns." 

"  It  is  too  late  to  talk  of  it — never  mind  that  now,"  he 
said,  impatiently.  "  It  is  about  Yolande  I  want  to  speak 
to  you." 

"Yes?" 

Then  he  hesitated.  In  fact,  his  lips  trembled  for  the 
briefest  part  of  a  second. 

"  You  won't  guess  what  I  am  anxious  for  now,"  he  said, 
with  a  sort  of  uncertain  laugh.  *'  You  wouldn't  guess  it  in 
a  month,  Shortlands.  lam  anxious  to  see  Yolande  married." 

"  Faith,  that  needn't  trouble  you,"  said  the  big  iron- 
master, bluntly.  "  There'll  be  no  difficulty  about  that. 
Yolande  has  grown  into  a  thundering  handsome  girl.  And 
they  sav,"  he  added,  jocosely,  "  that  her  father  is  pretty 
well  off." 

Tliey  were  walking  up  and  down  slowly;  Mr.  Winter 
bourne's  face  absent  and  hopeless  at  times,  at  times  almost 
piteous,  and  again  lightening  up  as  he  thought  of  some 
brighter  future  for  his  daughter. 

"  She  can  not  remain  any  longer  at  school,"  he  said  at 
length,  "  and  I  don't  like  leaving  her  by  herself  at  Oatlaiids 
Park  or  any  similar  place.  Poor  child !  Do  you  know 
what  her  own  plans  are  ?  She  wants  to  be  my  private 
secretary.  She  wants  to  share  the  life  that  I  have  been  lead, 
ing  all  these  years." 

"  And  so  she  might  have  done,  my  good  fellow,  if  there 
had  been  any  common-sense  among  the  lot  o'ye." 

"  It  is  too  late  to  speak  of  that  now,"  the  other  repeated, 
with  a  sort  of  nervous  fretfulness.  "  But  indeed  it  is  hard 
on  the  poor  girl.     She  seems   to  have  been  thinking"  seri- 


14  YOLANDE. 

ously  about  it.  And  she  and  I  have  been  pretty  close  com- 
panions, one  way  or  another,  of  late  years.  Well,  if  I 
could  only  see  her  safely  married  and  settled — perhaps 
living  in  the  country,  where  I  could  run  down  for  a  day  or 
so — her  name  not  mine — perhaps  with  a  young  family 
Iv)  occupy  her  and  make  her  happy — well,  then,  I  think 
T  should  be  able  to  put  up  wilh  the  loss  of  my  pri- 
vate secretary.  I  wonder  what  she  will  say  when  I 
])ro])ose  it.  She  will  be  disappointed.  Perhaps  she  will 
tiiink  I  don't  care  for  her — when  there  is  just  not  another 
creature  in  the  world  I  do  care  for ;  she  may  think  it  cruel 
and  unnatural." 

"Nonsense,  nonsense,  man.  Of  course  a  girl  like 
Yolande  will  get  married.  Your  private  secretary !  How 
long  would  it  last  ?  Does  she  look  like  the  sort  of  girl  who 
ought  to  be  smothered  up  in  correspondence  or  listening  to 
debates?  And  if  you're  in  such  a  mighty  hurry  to  get  rid 
of  her — if  you  want  to  get  her  married  at  once — I'll  tell  you 
a  safe  and  sure  way — send  her  for  a  voyage  on  board  a  P. 
and  O.  steamer." 

But  this  was  just  somewhat  too  blunt ;  and  Yolande's 
father  said,  angrily, — 

"I  don't  want  to  get  rid  of  her.  And  I  am  not  likely 
to  send  her  anywhere.  Hitherto  we  have  travelled  together, 
and  we  have  found  it  answer  well  enough,  I  can  tell  you. 
Yolande  isn't  a  bale  of  goods,  to  be  disposed  of  to  the  first 
bidder.  If  it  comes  to  that,  perhaps  she  will  not  marry  any 
one." 

"  Perhaps,"  said  the  other,  calmly. 

'*  I  don't  know  that  I  may  not  throw  Slagpool  over 
and  quit  the  country  altogether,"  he  exclaimed,  with  a 
momentary  recklessness,  "Why  shouldn't  I?  Yolande 
is  fond  of  travelling.  She  has  been  fonr  times  across  the 
Atlantic  now.  She  is  the  best  companion  I  know  ;  I  tell 
you  I  don't  know  a  better  companion.  And  I  am  sick  of 
the  way  they're  going  on  here."  (He  nodded  in  the  direc- 
tion of  the  House.)  "  Government  ?  They  don't  govern  ; 
they  talk.  A  Parliamentary  victory  is  all  they  think  about, 
and  the  country  going  to  the  mischief  all  the  time.  No 
matter,  if  they  get  their  majority,  and  if  they  can  pose  before 
the  world  as  vhe  most  moral  and  exemplary  government 
that  ever  existed.  I  wonder  they  don't  give  up  Gibraltar 
to  Spain,  and  hand  over  Malta  to  Italy ;  and  then  they 
ought  to  let  Ireland  go  because  she  wants  to  go ;  and  cer- 


YOLANDE.  15 

tainly  they  ought  to  yield  up  India,  for  India  was  stolen  ; 
and  then  they  might  reduce  the  army  and  the  navy,  to  set 
an  example  of  disarmament,  so  that  at  last  the  world  might 
see  a  spectacle — a  nation  permitted  to  exist  by  other  na- 
tions because  of  its  uprightness  and  its  noble  sentiments. 
Well,  that  has  nothing  to  do  with  Yolande,  except  that  I 
think  she  and  I  could  get  on  very  well  even  if  we  left  Eng- 
land to  pursue  its  course  of  high  morality.  We  could  look 
on — and  laugh,  as  the  rest  of  the  world  are  doing." 

"  My  dear  fellow,"  said  Shortlands,  who  had  listened 
to  all  this  high  treason  with  calmness,  "  you  could  no  more 
get  on  without  the  excitement  of  worrying  the  Govern- 
ment than  without  meat  and  drink.  What  would  it 
come  to  ?  You  would  be  in  Colorado,  let  us  say,  and 
some  young  fellow  in  Denver,  come  in  from  the  plains, 
would  suddenly  discover  that  Yolande  would  be  an  adorn- 
ing feature  for  his  ranch,  and  she  would  discover  that  he 
was  the  handsomest  young  gentleman  she  ever  saw,  and 
then  where  would  you  be  ?  You  wouldn't  be  much  good 
at  a  ranch.  The  morning  papers  would  look  tremendously 
empty  without  the  usual  protest  against  the  honorable 
member  for  Slagpool  so  grossly  misrepresenting  the  ac- 
tion of  the  Government.  My  good  fellow,  we  can't  do 
without  you  in  the  House ;  we  might  as  well  try  to  do  with- 
out the  Speaker." 

For  a  few  seconds  they  walked  up  and  down  in  silence; 
at  last   Winterbourne  said,   with   a  sigh, — 

"  Well,  I  don't  know  what  may  happen  ;  but  in  the 
meantime  I  think  I  shall  take  Yolande  away  for  another 
long  trip  somewhere — " 

"Again?     Already?" 

"I  don't  care  where ;  but  the  moment  I  find  myself  on 
the  deck  of  a  ship,  and  Yolande  beside  me,  then  I  feel  as  if 
all  care  had  dropped  away  from  me.  I  feel  safe ;  I  can 
breathe  freely.  Oh,  by  the  way,  I  meant  to  ask  if  you 
knew  anything  of  a  Colonel  Graham  ?  You  have  been  so 
often  to  Scotland  shooting.     I  thought  you  might  know." 

*•  But  there  are  so  many  Grahams." 

"  Inverstroy,  I  think,  is  the  name  of  his  place." 

"  Oh,  thai  Graham.  Yes,  I  should  think  so — a  lucky 
beggar.  Inverstroy  fell  plump  into  his  hands  some  three 
or  four  years  ago,  quite  unexpectedly — one  of  the  finest 
estates  in  Inverness-shire.  I  don't  think  India  will  see  him 
again." 


16  YOLANDE. 

"  His  wife  seems  a  nice  Sort  of  woman,"  said  Mr.  Win- 
terbourne,  with  the  slightest  touch  of  interrogation. 

"  I  don't  know  her.  She  is  his  second  wife.  She  is  a 
daughter  of  Lord  Lynn." 

'*  They  are  down  at  Oatlands  just  now.  Yolande  has 
made  their  acquaintance,  and  they  have  been  very  kind  to 
her.  Well,  this  Colonel  Graham  was  saying  the"'  other 
evening  that  he  felt  as  though  he  had  been  long  enough  in 
the  old  country,  and  would  like  to  take  a  P.  and  O.  trip 
as  far  as  Malta,  or  Suez,  or  Aden,  just  to  renew  his  ac- 
quaintance with  the  old  route.  In  fact,  they  proposed  that 
Yolande  and  I  should  join  them." 

"The  very  thing!  "  said  John  Shortlands,  facetiously. 
"  What  did  I  say  ?  A  P.  and  O.  voyage  will  marry  off 
anybody  who  is  willing  to  marry." 

*'  I  meant  nothing  of  the  kind,"  said  the  other,  some- 
what out  of  temper  ;  "  Yolande  may  not  many  at  all.  If  I 
went  with  these  friends,  of  hers,  it  would  not  be  *  to  get 
rid  of  her,'  as  you  say  " 

"My  dear  fellow,  don't  quarrel  with  me,"  said  his 
friend,  with  more  consideration  than  was  habitual  with 
him.  "  I  really  understand  your  position  very  well.  You 
wish  to  see  Yolande  married  and  settled  in  life  and  re- 
moved from — from  certain  possibilities.  But  you  don't 
like  the  sacrifice,  and  I  don't  wonder  at  that ;  I  admit  it 
will  be  rather  rough  on  you.  But  it  is  the  way  of-  the 
world  :  other  people's  daughters  get  married.  Indeed, 
Winterbourne,  I  think  it  would  be  better  for  both  of  you. 
You  would  have  less  anxiety.  And  I  hope  she'll  find  a 
young  fellow  who  is  worthy  of  her ;  for  she  is  a  thunder- 
ing good  girl:  that's  what  I  think :  and  whoever  he  is, 
he'll  get  a  prize,  though  I  don't  imagine  you  will  be  over 
well  disposed  toward  him,  old  chap." 

"  If  Yolande  is  happy,  that  will  be  enough  for  me,"  said 
the  other,  absently,  as  Big  Ben  overhead  began  to  toll  the 
hour  of  twelve. 

By  this  time  the  Terrace  was  quite  deserted :  and  after 
some  little  further  chat  (  Mr.  Winterbourn©  had  lost  much 
of  his  nervousness  now  and  of  course  all  his  talking  was 
about  Yolande,  and  her  ways,  and  her  liking  for  travel,  and 
her  anxiety  to  get  rid  of  her  half-French  accent,  and  so 
forth  )  they  turned  into  the  House,  where  they  separated, 
Winterbourne  taking  his  seat  below  the  gangway  on  the 
Government  side,  John  Shortlands  depositing  his  magnifi- 
cent bulk  on  one  of  tlie  Opposition  benches. 


yOLAiVDK.  17 

There  was  a  general  hum  of  conversation.  Tliere  was 
also,  as  presently  appeared,  some  laborious  discourse  going 
forward  on  the  part  of  a  handsome-looking  elderly  gentle- 
man— a  gentleman  who,  down  in  the  country,  was  known 
to  be  everything  that  an  Englishman  could  wish  to  be  :  an 
efficient  magistrate,  a  plucky  rider  to  hounds,  an  admirable 
husband  and  father,  and  a  firm  believer  in  the  Articles  of  the 
Church  of  England.  Unhappily,  alas  !  he  had  acquired  some 
other  beliefs.  He  had  got  it  into  his  head  that  he  was  an  ora- 
tor ;and  as  he  honestly  did  believe  that  talking  was  of  value 
to  the  state,  that  it  was  a  builder  up  and  raaintainer  of  empire, 
he  was  now  most  seriously  engaged  in  clotliing  some  rather 
familiar  ideas  in  long  and  Latinized  phrases,  the  while  the 
House  murmured  to  itself  about  its  own  affairs,  and  the 
Speaker  gazed  blankly  into  space,  and  the  reporters  in  the 
gallery  thought  of  their  courting  days,  or  of  their  wives  and 
children,  or  of  their  supper,  and  wondered  when  tliey  were 
to  get  home  to  bed.  The  speech  had  a  lialf-somnolent  effect ; 
and  those  who  were  so  inclined  had  an  excellent  opportunity 
for  the  dreaming  of  dreams. 

What  dreams,  then,  were  likely  to  visit  tlie  brain  of  the 
member  for  Slagpool,  as  he  sat  there  with  his  eyes  distraught  ? 
His  getting  up  some  fateful  evening  to  move  a  vote  of  want 
of  confidence  in  the  Government?  His  appearance  on  the 
platform  of  the  Slagpool  Mechanics'  Institute,  with  the  great 
mass  of  people  rising  and  cheering  and  waving  their  hand- 
kerchiefs ?  Or  perhaps  some  day — for  who  could  tell  what 
changes  the  years  might  bring — his  taking  his  place  on  the 
Treasury  Bench  there  ? 

He  had  got  hold  of  a  blue-book.  It  was  the  Report  of 
a  Royal  Commission  ;  but  of  course  all  tlie  cover  of  tiie  folio 
volume  was  not  printed  over — there  were  blank  spaces. 
And  so,  while  those  laborious  and  ponderous  sentences  were 
being  poured  out  to  inattentive  ears,  the  member  for  Slag- 
pool began  idly  and  yet  thoughtfully  to  pencil  certain  letters 
up  at  one  corner  of  the  blue  cover.  He  was  a  long  time 
about  it ;  perhaps  he  saw  pictures  as  he  slowly  and  contem- 
platively formed  each  letter ;  perhaps  no  one  but  himself 
could  have  made  out  what  the  uncertain  j)encilling  meant. 
But  it  was  not  of  politics  he  was  thinking.  The  letters  that 
he  had  faintly  pencilled  there — that  he  w«s  still  wistfully 
regarding  as  though  they  could  show  him  things  far  away 
—-formed  the  word   YOLAKDE.     It  waF  like  a  lover. 


18  YOLANDE, 


CHAPTER  III. 

PBBPARATIONS   FOB  FLIGHT. 

Kext  morning  his  nervous  anxiety  to  get  Tolands 
away  at  once  out  of  London  was  almost  pitiful  to  witness, 
though  ho  strove  as  well  as  he  could  to  conceal  it  from  her. 
He  had  a  hundred  excuses.  Oatlands  was  becoming  very 
pretty  at  that  time  of  the  year.  There  was  httle  of  impor- 
tance going  on  in  the  House.  London  was  not  good  for 
the  roses  in  her  cheeks.  He  himself  would  be  glad  of  a 
breather  up  St.  George's  Hill,  or  a  quiet  stroll  along  to 
Chertsey.     And  so  forth,  and  so  forth. 

Yolande  was  greatly  disappointed.  She  had  been  secretly 
nursing  the  hope  that  at  last  she  might  be  allowed  to  remain 
in  London,  in  some  capacity  or  another,  as  the  constant 
companion  of  her  father.  She  had  enough  sense  to  see  that 
the  time  consumed  in  his  continually  coming  to  stay  with 
her  in  the  country  must  be  a  serious  thing  for  a  man  in 
public  life.  She  was  in  a  dim  sort  of  way  afraid  that  these 
visits  might  become  irksome  to  him,  even  although  he  him- 
self should  not  be  aware  of  it.  Then  she  had  her  ambitions 
too.  She  had  a  vague  impression  that  the  country  at  large 
did  not  quite  understand  and  appreciate  her  father ;  that 
the  people  did  not  know  him  as  she  knew  him.  How  could 
they,  if  he  v/ere  to  be  forever  forsaking  his  public  duties  in 
order  to  gad  about  with  a  girl  just  left  school  ?  >I'ever 
before,  Yolande  was  convinced,  had  the  nation  such  urgent 
need  of  his  services.  There  were  a  great  many  things 
wrong  which  he  could  put  right;  of  that  she  had  no  man- 
ner of  doubt.  The  Government  was  making  a  tyrannical 
use  of  a  big  majority  to  go  their  own  way,  not  heeding  the 
warnings  and  protests  of  independent  members ;  this 
amongst  many  other  things  ought  to  be  attended  to.  And 
it  was  at  such  a  time,  and  just  when  she  had  revealed  to 
him  her  secret  aspiration  that  she  might  perhaps  become 
his  private  secretary,  that  he  must  needs  tell  her  to  pack 
up,  and  insist  on  quitting  London  with  her.  Yolande  could 
not  understand  it:  but  she  was  a  biddable  and  obedient  kind 


YOLANDE.  19 

of  creature  ;  and  bo  she  took  her  place  in  the  four-wheeled 
cab  without  any  word  of  complaint. 

And  yet,  when  once  they  were  really  on  their  way 
from  London — when  the  railway-carriage  was  fairly  out  of 
the  station — her  father's  manner  seemed  to  gain  so  much 
in  cheerfulness  that  she  could  hardly  be  sorry  they  had  left. 
She  had  not  noticed  that  he  had  been  more  anxious  and 
nervous  that  morning  than  usual ;  but  she  could  not  fail  to 
remark  how  much  brighter  his  look  was  now  they  were  out 
in  the  clearer  air.  And  when  Yolande  saw  her  father's 
eyes  light  up  like  this — as  they  did  occasionally — she  was 
apt  to  forget  about  the  injury  that  was  being  done  to  the 
affairs  of  the  empire.  They  had  been  much  together,  these 
two;  and  anything  appertaining  to  him  was  of  keen 
interest  to  her ;  whereas  the  country  at  large  was  some- 
thing of  an  abstraction  ;  and  the  mechanical  majority  of 
the  Government — for  which  she  had  a  certain  measure  of 
contempt — little  more  than  a  name. 

"  Yolande,"  said  he  (they  had  the  compartment  to 
themselves),  "  I  had  a  talk  with  John  Shortlands  last 
night." 

"Yes,  papa?" 

"  And  it'  England  slept  well  from  that  time  until  this 
morning  it  was  because  she  little  knew  the  fate  in  store  for 
her.  Think  of  this,  child  :  1  have  threatened  to  throw  up 
my  place  in  Parliament  altogether,  letting  the  country  go 
to  the  mischief  if  it  liked  ;  and  then  the  arrangement  would 
be  that  you  and  I,  Yolande — now  just  consider  this — that 
you  and  I  should  start  away  together  and  roam  all  over 
the  world,  looking  at  everything,  and  amusing  ourselves, 
going  just  where  we  liked,  no  one  to  interfere  with  us — you 
and  I  all  by  ourselves — now,  Yolande  !  " 

She  had  clasped  her  hands  with  a  quick  delight. 

*'  Oh,  papa,  that  would  indeed — " 

But  she  stopped ;  and  instantly  her  face  grew  grave 
again. 

"  Oh  no,"  she  said,  ''  no  ;  it  would  not  do.  Last  night, 
papa,  you  were  reproachful  of  me — " 

"  '  Reproachful  of  me  ! '  "  he  repeated,  mockingly. 

"  Reproachful  to  me  ? "  she  said,  with  inquiring  eyes. 
But  he  himself  was  not  ready  with  the  correct  phrase ;  and 
80  she  went  on :  "  Last  night  you  were  reproachful  that  1 
had  taken  up  so  much  of  your  time  ;  and  though  it  was  all 
in  fun,  still  it  was  true  ;  and  now  I  am  no  longer  a  school 


20  YOLANDE. 

girl;  and  I  wish  to  help  you  if  I  can,  and  not  be  merely 
tiresome  and  an  incumbrance — " 

"  You  are  so  much  of  an  incumbrance,  Yolande  !  "  he 
said,  with  a  laugh. 

"  Yes,"  she  said,  gravely,  "  you  would  tire  of  me  if  we 
went  away  like  that.  In  time  you  would  tire.  One  would 
tire  of  always  being  amused.  All  the  people  that  we  see 
have  work  to  do  ;  and  some  day — it  might  be  a  long  time 
— but  some  day  you  would  think  of  Parliament,  and  you 
would  think  you  had  given  it  up  for  me — " 

"  Don't  make  such  a  mistake  !  *"'  said  he.  "  Do  not 
consider  yourself  of  such  importance,  miss.  If  I  threw 
over  Slagpool,  and  started  as  a  Wandering  Jew — I  mean 
we  should  be  two  Wandering  Jews,  you  know,  Yolande — 
it  would  be  quite  as  much  on  my  own  account  as  yours — '* 

"  You  would  become  tired  of  being  amused.  You 
could  not  always  travel,"  she  said.  She  put  her  hand  on 
his  hand.  "  Ah,  I  see  what  it  is,"  she  said,  with  a  little 
laugh.  '*  You  are  concealing.  That  is  your  kindness,  papa. 
You  think  I  am  too  much  alone ;  it  is  not  enough  that  you 
sacrifice  to-day,  to-morrow,  next  day,  to  me;  you  wish  to 
make  a  sacrifice  altogether ;  and  you  pretend  you  are  tired 
of  politics.  But  you  can  not  make  me  blind  to  it.  I  see— 
oh,  quite  clearly  I  can  see  through  your  pretence !  " 

Pie  was  scarcely  listening  to  her  now. 

*'  I  suppose,"  he  said,  absently,  *'  it  is  one  of  those  fine 
things  that  are  too  fine  ever  to  become  true.  Fancy  now, 
the  two  of  us  just  wandering  away  wherever  we  pleased, 
resting  a  day,  a  week,  a  month,  when  we  came  to  some 
beautiful  place — all  by  ourselves  in  the  wide  world!  " 

"  I  have  often  noticed  that,  papa,"  she  said — *'  that  you 
like  to  talk  about  being  away,  about  being  remote — " 

"  But  we  should  not  be  like  the  Wandering  Jew  in  one 
respect,"  he  said,  almost  to  himself.  "  The  years  would 
tell.  There  would  be  a  difference.  Something  might 
happen  to  one  of  us." 

And  then,  apparently,  a  new  suggestion  entered  hih 
mnid.  lie  glanced  at  the  girl  opposite  him,  timidly  and 
anxiously. 

"  Yolande,"  said  he,  "I — I  wonder  now — I  suppose  at 
your  age — well,  have  you  ever  thought  of  getting  married  ?" 

She  looked  up  at  him  with  her  clear,  frank  eyes,  and 
when  she  was  startled  like  that  her  mouth  had  the  slight 


YOLANDE.  21 

pathetic  droop,  already  noticed,  that  made  her  face  so  sen- 
sitive and  charming. 

"  Why,  hundreds  and  hundreds  and  hundreds  of  times  !  "  , 
she  exclaimed,  still  with  the  soft  clear  eyes  wondering. 

His  eyes  were  turned  away.  He  appeared  to  attach  no 
importance  to  this  confession. 

"  Of  course,"  she  said,  "  when  1  say  I  have  thought 
hundreds  of  times  of  getting  married,  it  is  about  not  get- 
ting married  that  I  mean.  No.  That  is  my  resolution. 
Oil,  many  a  time  I  have  said  that  to  myself.  I  shall  not 
marry — never — no  one." 

In  spite  of  himself  his  face  suddenly  brightened  up,  and 
it  was  quite  cheerfully  that  he  went  on  to  say : — 

"  Oh,  but,  Yolande,  that  is  absurd.  Of  course  you  will 
marry.     Of  course  you  must  marry. 

"  When  you  put  me  away,  papa." 

"  When  I  put  you  away,"  he  repeated,  with  a  laugh. 

"  Yes,"  she  continued,  quite  simply.  "  That  was  what 
Madame  used  to  say.  She  used  to  say,  *  If  your  papa  mar- 
ries again,  that  is  what  you  must  expect.  It  will  be  better 
for  you  to  leave  the  house.  But  your  papa  is  rich ;  you 
will  have  a  good  portion  ;  then  you  will  find  some  one  to 
marry  you,  and  give  you  also  an  establishment.'  'Very 
well,'  I  said  ;  *  but  that  is  going  too  far,  Madame,  and  until 
my  papa  tells  me  to  go  away  from  him  I  shall  not  go  away, 
and  there  is  not  any  necessity  that  I  shall  marry  any  one.'  " 

"I  wish  Madame  had  minded  her  own  affairs,"  Mr. 
Winterbourne  said,  angrily.  *'  I  am  not  likely  to  marry 
as:ain.  I  shall  not  marry  again.  Put  that  out  of  your  head, 
Yolande,  at  once  and  for  always.  But  as  for  you — well, 
don't  you  see,  child,  I — I  can't  live  forever,  and  you  have 
got  no  very  near  relatives,  and,  besides,  living  with  rela- 
tives isn't  always  the  pleasan'test  of  things,  and  I  should  like 
to  see  your  future  quite  settled,  I  should  like  to  know  that — 
that — " 

"  My  future  !  "  Yolande  said,  with  a  light  laugh.  "  No, 
I  will  have  nothing  to  do  with  a  future  :  is  not  the  present 
very  good?  Look  :  here  I  am,  I  have  you;  we  are  going 
out  together  to  have  walks,  rides,  boating — is  it  not  enough  ? 
Do  I  want  any  stranger  to  come  in  to  interfere  ?  No ; 
some  day  you  will  say,  'Yolande,  you  worry  me.  You 
stop  my  work.  Now  I  am  going  to  attend  to  Parliament, 
and  you  have  got  to  marry,  and  go  off,  and  not  worry  me.* 
Very  well.     It  is  enough.     What  I  shall  say  is  this  :  Papa, 


22  YOLA.VDE. 

choose  for  me.  What  do  I  know?  I  do  not  know,  and  1 
do  not  care.  Only  a  few  things  are  necessary — are  quite 
entirely  necessary.  He  must  not  talk  all  day  long  about 
horses.  And  he  must  be  in  Parliament.  And  he  must  be 
on  your  side  in  Parliament.  How  much  is  that — tliree  ? — 
three  qualifications.     That  is  all." 

Indeed,  he  found  it  was  no  use  trying  to  talk  to  her 
Keriously  about  this  matter.  She  laughed  it  aside.  She 
did  not  believe  there  was  any  fear  about  her  future.  She 
uas  well  content  with  the  world  as  it  existed  :  was  not  the 
«i:iy  fine  enough,  and  Weybridge,  and  Chertsey,  and  Eslier 
and  Moulsey  all  awaiting  them  ?  If  her  father  would  leave 
liis  Parliamentary  duties  to  look  after  themselves,  she  was 
resolved  to  make  the  most  of  the  holiday. 

"  Oh,  but  you  don't  know,"  said  he,  quite  falling  in  with 
her  mood — "  you  don't  know,  Yolande,  one  fifteenth  part 
of  what  is  in  store  for  you.  I  don't  believe  you  have  the 
faintest  idea  why  I  am  going  down  to  Oatlands  at  this 
minute." 

"  Well,  I  don't,  papa,"  she  said,  "  except  through  a  mad- 
ness of  kindness." 

"  Would  it  surprise  you  if  I  asked  Mrs.  Graham  to  take 
you  with  them  for  that  sail  to  Suez  or  Aden  ?  " 

She  threw  up  her  hands  in  affright. 

"  Alone  ?  "  she  exclaimed.  **  To  go  away  alone  with 
strangers  ?  " 

"  Oh  no  ;  I  sliould  be  going  also — of  course." 

"  But  the  time—" 

"  I  should  be  back  for  the  Budget.  Yolande,"  said  he, 
gravely,  "I  am  convinced — I  am  seriously  convinced — ^that 
no  one  should  be  allowed  to  sit  in  Parliament  who  has  not 
visited  Gibraltar,  and  the  island  of  Malta,  and  such  places, 
and  seen  how  the  empire  is  held  together,  and  what  our 
foreign  possessions  are — " 

"  It  is  only  an  excuse,  papa — it  is  only  an  ejccuse  to  give 
me  another  holiday." 

"  Be  quiet.  I  tell  you  the  country  ought  to  compel  its 
legislators  to  go  out  in  batches — paying  the  expenses  of  the 
poorer  ones,  of  course — and  see  for  themselves  what  our 
soldiers  and  sailors  are  doing  for  us.  I  am  certain  that  I 
have  no  right  to  sit  in  Parliament  until  I  have  visited  the 
fortifications  of  Malta,  and  inspected  the  Suez  Canal." 

"  Oh,  if  it  is  absolutely  necessary,"  Yolande  said,  with 
a  similar  gravity. 


YOLANDE.  23 

"  It  is  absolutely  uecessary.  I  have  long  felt  it  to  be  so. 
I  feel  it  is  a  duty  to  my  country  that  we  should  personally 
examine  Malta." 

"  Very  well,  papa,"  said  Yolande,  who  was  so  pleased  to 
find  her  father  in  such  good-humor  that  she  forbore  to  pro- 
test, even  though  she  was  vaguely  aware  that  the  confidence 
of  the  electorate  of  Slagpool  was  again  being  abused  in 
order  that  she  should  enjoy  another  long  and  idling  voyage 
with  the  only  companion  whom  she  cared  to  have  witli  her. 

The  Grahams  were  the  very  first  people  they  saw  when 
they  reached  Oatlands.  Colonel  Graham — a  tall,  stout, 
grizzled,  good-natured  looking  man — was  lying  back  in  a 
garden  seat,  smoking  a  gigar  and  reading  a  newspaper, 
wdiile  his  wife  was  standing  close  by,  calling  to  her  baby, 
which  plump  small  person  was  vainly  trying  to  walk  to 
her,  under  the  guidance  of  an  ayah,  whose  dusky  skin  and 
silver  ornaments  and  flowing  garments  of  Indian  red  looked 
picturesque  enough  on  an  English  lawn.  Mrs.  Graham  was 
a  pretty  woman,  of  middle  height,  with  a  pale  face,  a  square 
forehead,  short  hair  inclined  to  curl,  and  dark  gray  eyes 
with  black  eyelashes  and  black  eyebrows.  But  along  with 
her  prettiness,  which  was  only  moderate,  she  had  an  ex- 
ceedingly fascinating  manner,  and  a  style  that  was  at  least 
attractive  to  men.  Women,  especially  when  they  found 
themselves  deserted,  did  not  like  her  style  ;  they  said  there 
was  rather  too  much  of  it ;  they  said  it  savored  of  the 
garrison  flirt,  and  was  obviously  an  importation  from  In- 
dia ;  and  they  thought  she  talked  too  much,  and  laughed 
too  much,  and  altogether  had  too  little  of  the  dignity  of  a 
matron.  No  doubt  they  would  have  hinted  something 
about  the  obscurity  of  her  birth  and  parentage  had  that 
been  possible.  But  it  was  not  possible,  for  everybody 
knew  that  when  Colonel  Graham  married  her,  as  his  second 
wife,  she  was  the  only  daughter  of  Lord  Lynn,  who  was  the 
thirteenth  baron  of  that  name  in  the  peerage  of  Scotland. 

Now  this  pretty,  pale-faced,  gray-eyed  woman  professed 
herself  overjoyed  when  Mr.  Winterbourne  said  there  v^as  a 
c]\ance  of  his  daughter  and  himself  joining  her  and  her  hus- 
band on  their  suggested  P.  and  O.  trip;  but  the  lazy, 
good-humored  looking  soldier  glanced  up  from  his  ])aper  and 
said, — 

"  Look  here,  Polly,  it's  too  absurd.  What  would  people 
says  ?  It's  all  very  well  for  you  and  me  :  we  are  old  Indians, 
and  don't  mind ;  but  if  Mr.  Winterbourne  is  coming  with  lis 


04  YOI.AXDE. 

—and  yo  i,  Miss  Winterbourne — we  must  do  something 
more  reasonable  and  Christian-like  than  sail  out  to  Suez  or 
Aden  and  back,  all  for  nothing." 

*'  But  nothing  could  suit  us  better,"  Yolande's  father 
said.  Indeed,  he  did  not  mind  where  or  why  he  went,  so 
long  as  he  got  away  from  England,  and  Yolande  with  liim. 

'*  Oh,  but  we  must  do  something,"  Colonel  Graham  said. 
'*  Look  here.  When  we  were  at  Peshawur  a  young  fellow 
came  up  there — you  remember  young  Ismat,  r*olly? — well, 
1  was  of  some  little  assistance  to  him ;  and  he  said  any  time 
we  wanted  to  see  something  of  the  Nile  I  could  have  his 
father's  dahabeeyah — or  rather  one  of  them,  for  his  father 
is  Governor  of  Merhadj,  and  a  bit  of  a  swell,  I  fancy.  There 
you  are  now.  That  would  be  something  to  do.  People 
wouldn't  think  we  were  idiots.  We  could  have  our  sail  all 
the  same  to  Suez,  and  see  the  old  faces  at  Gib,  and  Malta ; 
then  we  could  have  a  skim  up  the  Nile  a  bit,  and,  by  the 
way,  we  shall  have  it  all  to  ourselves  just  now — " 

"The  very  thing!  "  exclaimed  Mr.  Winterbourne, 
eagerly,  for  his  imagination  seemed  easily  captured  by  the 
suggestion  of  anything  remote.  "  Nothing  could  be  more 
admirable  !     Yolande,  what  do  you  say  ?  " 

Yolande's  face  was  sufficient  answer. 

"  My  dear  child,"  said  Mrs.  Graham,  in  an  awful  whisper, 
*'  have  you  got  a  Levinge?  " 

"  A  what  ?  "  said  Yolande. 

"  You  have  not?  And  you  might  have  gone  to  Egypt, 
at  this  time  of  the  year,  without  a  Levinge?" 

"  What  are  you  talking  about  the  time  of  the  year,  Polly !' 
her  husband  cried,  peevishly.  '*  It  is  the  only  time  of  the 
year  that  the  Nile  is  tolerable.  It  is  no  longer  a  cockney 
route.  You  have  the  whole  place  to  yourself — at  least,  so 
Ismat  Effendi  assured  me  ;  and  if  he  has  given  me  a  wrong 
tip,  wait  till  I  get  hold  of  him  by  the  nape  of  his  Egyptian 
neck !  And  you  needn't  frighten  Miss  Yolande  about 
mosquitoes  or  any  of  the  other  creatures  of  darkness ;  for 
you've  only  to  get  her  one  of  those  shroud  things — " 

**  Just  what  I  was  saying,"  his  wife  protested. 

Indeed,  she  seemed  greatly  pleased  about  this  project ; 
and  when  they  went  in  to  lunch  they  had  a  table  to  them- 
selves, so  as  to  secure  a  full  and  free  discussion  of  plans. 
Mrs.  Graham  talked  in  the  most  motherly  way  to  Yolande  ; 
and    petted   her.      She   declared    that   those   voyajsjes    to 


YOLANDE,  25 

America,  of  which  Yolande  had  told  her,  had  notliuigof  the 
charm  and  variety  and  picturesqiieness  of  the  sail  along 
the  African  shores.  Yolande  would  he  delighted  with  it ; 
with  the  people  on  board  ;  with  the  ports  they  would  call 
at ;  with  the  blue  of  the  Mediterranean  Sea.  It  was  all  a 
wonder,  as  she  described  it. 

But  she  was  a  shrewd-headed  little  woman.  Very  soon 
after  lunch  she  found  an  opportunity  of  talking  with  her 
husband  alone. 

"  I  think  Yolande  Winterbourne  prettier  anci  prettier 
the  longer  I  see  her,"  she  said,  carelessly. 

"  She's  a  good-looking  girl.  You'll  have  to  look  out, 
Polly.  You  won't  have  the  whole  ship  waiting  on  you  this 
time." 

'*And  very  rich — quite  an  heiress,  they  say." 

"  I  suppose  Winterbourne  is  pretty  well  off." 

**  He  liiiuself  has  nothing  to  do  with  the  firm  now,  I 
suppose  ? " 

"1  think  not." 

**  Besides,  making  engines  is  quite  respectable.  Nobody 
could  complain  of  that." 

"  I  shouldn't,  if  it  bvought  me  in  £15,000  or  £20,000  a 
year,"  her  husband  said,  gi-imly.  "  I'd  precious  soon  have 
Inverstronan  added  on  to  Inverstroy." 

"  Oh,"  she  said,  blithely,  "  talking  about  the  North,  I 
haven't  heard  from  Archie  for  a  long  time.  I  wonder  what 
he  is  about — watching  the  nesting  of  the  grouse,  I  sup- 
pose. I  say,  Jim  I  wish  you'd  let  me  ask  him  to  go  with 
us.  It's  rather  dull  for  him  up  there  ;  my  father  isn't  easy 
to  live  with.     May  I  ask  him  ?  " 

She  spoke  very  prettily  and  pleadingly. 

"  He'll  have  to  pay  liis  own  fare  to  Suez  and  back,  then,'* 
her  husband  answered,  rather  roughly. 

"  Oh  yes ;  why  not  ?  "  she  said,  with  great  innocence. 
"  I  am  sure  poor  Archie  is  always  willing  to  pay  when  he 
can,  and  I  do  wish  my  father  would  be  a  little  more  liberal. 
I  am  sure  he  might.  Every  inch  of  shooting  and  fishing 
was  let  last  year!  even  the  couple  of  hundred  yards  along 
the  river  that  Archie  always  has  had  for  himself.  I  don't 
believe  he  threw  a  fly  last  year — " 

"  He  did  on  the  Stroy,"  her  husband  said,  gloomily. 

"  That  was  because  }'ou  were'so  awfully  good  to  him," 
said  his  wife,  in  her  sweetest  manner.     "  And   you  can  be 


26  YOLANDE. 

awfully  good  to  people,  Jim,  when  you  don't  let  the  blaok 
bear  ride  on  your  shoulders." 

Then  Mrs.  Graham,  smoothing  her  pretty  short  curls, 
and  with  much  pleasure  visible  in  the  pretty  dark  gray 
eyes,  went  to  her  own  room,  and  sat  down  and  wrote  as 
follows : — 

"  Dear  Aechie, — Jim's  good-nature  is  beyond  anything. 
We  are  going  to  have  a  look  at  Gib,  again,  and  at  Malta, 
just  for  auld  lang  syne  ;  and  tlien  Jim  talks  of  taking  us  up 
the  Nile  a  bit;  and  he  says  you  ought  to  go  with  us,  and 
you  will  only  have  to  pay  your  passage  to  Suez  and  back — 
which  you  could  easily  save  out  of  your  hats  and  boots,  if 
you  would  only  be  a  little  less  extravagant,  and  get  them 
in  Inverness  instead  of  in  London.  Mr.  Winterbourne,  the 
member  for  Slagpool,  is  going  with  us,  and  he  and  Jim 
will  halve  the  expenses  of  the  Nile  voyage.  Mr.  Winter- 
bourne's  daughter  makes  up  the  party.  She  is  rather  nice, 
I  think,  but  only  a  child.  Let  me  know  at  once.  There  is 
a  P.  and  O.  on  the  ]7th;  I  think  we  shall  catch  that ;  Jim 
and  the  captain  are  old  friends. 

Your  loving  sister, 
*'  Polly." 

She  folded  up  the  letter,  put  it  in  an  envelope,  and  ad- 
dressed it  to : — 

The  Hon.  the  Master  of  Lynn^ 
Lynn  Towers^ 

hy  Inverness^  N",  B, 


CHAPTER  IV. 

A   FAREWELL    TO   ENGLAND. 


A  VOYAGE  in  a  P.  and  O.  steamer  is  so  familiar  a  matter 
to  thousands  of  English  readers  that  very  little  need  be 
said  about  it  here  in  detail,  except,  indeed,  *in  so  far  as  this 
particular  voyage  affected  the  fortunes  of  these  one  or  two 
peo]>le.     And  Yolande's  personal  experiences  began  early. 


YOLANDE.  21 

Tlie  usual  small  crowd  of  passengers  was  assembled  in 
Liverpool  Street  Station,  hurrying,  talking,  laughing,  and 
scanning  possible  ship-companions  with  an  eager  curiosity, 
and  in  the  midst  of  them  Yolande,  for  a  wonder — her  father 
having  gone  to  look  after  some  luggage — found  herself  for 
tlie  moment  alone.  A  woman  came  into  this  wide,  hollow- 
resounding  station,  and  timidly  and  yet  anxiously  scanned 
the  faces  of  the  various  people  who  were  on  the  platform 
adjoining  the  special  train.  She  was  a  respectably  dressed 
person,  apparently  a  mechanic's  wife,  but  her  features  bore 
the  marks  of  recent  crying;  they  were  all  "begrutten," 
as  the  Scotch  say.  She  carried  a  small  basket.  After  an 
anxious  scrutiny — but  it  was  only  the  women  she  regarded 
— she  went  up  to  Yolande. 

"I  beg  your  pardon,  miss,"  she  said  ;  but  she  could  say 
no  more,  for  her  face  was  tremulous. 

Yolande  looked  at  her,  thought  she  was  drunk,  and 
turned  away,  rather  frightened. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  miss  ;  "  and  with  tliat  her  trembling 
hands  opened  the  basket,  which  was  filled  with  flowers. 

"No,  thank  you,  I  don't  want  any,"  said  Yolande, 
civilly.  But  there  was  something  in  the  woman's  imploring 
eyes  that  said  something  to  her.  She  was  startled,  and 
stood  still. 

"  Are — are  you  going  farther  than  Gibraltar,  miss?  " 

"  Yes.     Yes,  I  think  so,"  said  Yolande,  wondering. 

There  were  tears  running  down  the  woman's  face.  For 
a  second  or  two  she  tried  to  speak,  ineffectually  ;  then  she 
said  : — 

"Two  days  out  from — from  Gibraltar — would  you  be 
80  kind,  miss,  as  to  put — these  flowers — on  the  water?  My 
little  girl  was  buried  at  sea — two  days  out — " 

"  Oh,  I  understand  you,"  said  Yolande,  quickly,  with  a 
big  lump  in  her  throat.  "Oh  yes,  I  will.  I  am  so  sorry 
for  you — " 

She  took  the  basket.  The  woman  burst  out  crying,  and 
Lid  her  face  in  her  hands,  and  then  turned  to  go  away.  She 
was  so  distracted  with  her  grief  that  she  had  forgotten  even 
to  say  "  Thank  you."  At  the  same  naoment  Mr.  Winter- 
bourne  came  up,  hastily  and  angrily. 

"What  is  this?" 

"  Hush,  papa !  The  poor  woman  had  a  little  girl  buried 
at  sea ;  these  are  some  flowers — " 


28  YOLANDE. 

Yolande  went  quickly  after  her,  and  touched  her  on  the 
shoulder. 

"  Tell  rae,"  she  said,  "  what  was  your  daughter's  name  ?  " 

The  woman  raised  her  tear-stained  face.  "  Jane.  We 
called  her  Janie ;  she  was  only  three  years  old  ;  she  would 
have  been  ten  by  now.  You  won't  forget,  miss  ;  it  was — ■ 
it  was  two  days  beyond'  Gibraltar  that — that  we  buried 
her." 

"  Oh,  no  ;  do  you  think  I  could  forget  ?  "  Yolande  said  ; 
and  she  offered  her  hand.  The  woman  took  her  hand  and 
pressed  it,  and  said,  "  God  bless  you,  miss  1  I  thought  I 
could  trust  your  face  ;"  then  she  hurried  away. 

Yolande  went  back  to  her  father,  who,  though  closely 
watching  her,  was  standing  with  the  Grahams  ;  and  she 
told  them  (with  her  own  eyes  a  little  bit  moist)  of  the 
mission  with  which  she  had  been  intrusted;  but  neither 
she  nor  they  thought  of  asking  why,  out  of  all  the  people 
about  to  go  down  by  the  steamer  train,  this  poor  woman 
should  have  picked  out  Yolande  as  the  one  by  whom  she 
would  like  to  have  those  flowers  strewn  on  her  child's  ocean 
grave.  Perhaps  there  was  something  in  the  girl's  face  that 
assured  the  mother  that  she  was  not  likely  to  forget. 

And  at  last  the  crowd  began  to  resolve  itself  into  those 
who  were  going  and  those  who  were  remaining  behind  ;  the 
former  establishing  themselves  in  the  compartments,  the 
latter  talking  all  the  more  eagerly  as  the  time  grew  shorter. 
And  Mrs.  Graham  was  in  despair  because  of  the  non-appear- 
ance of  her  brother. 

"  There!  "  she  said  to  her  husband,  as  the  door  of  the 
carriage  was  finally  locked,  and  the  train  began  to  move 
out  of  the  station,  "  I  told  you — I  told  you  I  should  not  be 
surprised.  It  is  just  like  him — always  wanting  to  be  too 
clever.  Well,  his  coolness  has  cost  him  something  this 
time.  I  told  you  I  should  not  at  all  be  surprised  if  he 
missed  the  train  altogether." 

"  I  don't  think  the  Master's  finances  are  likely  to  run  to 
a  special,"  her  husband  said,  good-humoredly. 

"  Oh,  it  is  too  provoking  !  "  exclaimed  the  pretty  young 
matron  (but,  with  all  her  anger,  she  did  not  forget  to 
smooth  her  tightly  fitting  costume  as  she  settled  into  her 
seat^.^  "  It  is  too  provoking !  I  left  Baby  at  home  more 
on  nis  account  than  on  any  one  else's.  If  there  was  the 
?ilis:htest  sound,  I  knew  he   would  declare  that  Baby  had 


YOLANDE.  20 

Deen  crying   all  the  night  through.     There  never  was  a 
better  baby — never  !     Now,  was  there  ever,  Jim  ?  " 

"  Well,  I  can't  answer  for  all  the  babies  that  ever  were 
in  the  world,"  her  husband  said,  in  his  easy,  good-natured 
way ;  "  but  it  is  a  good  enough  baby,  as  babies  go." 

"  It  is  the  rery  best  tempered  baby  I  ever  saw  or  heard 
Df,*' she  said,  emphatically;  and  she  turned  to  Yolande. 
*  Just  think,  dear,  of  my  leaving  Baby  in  England  for  two 
whole  months,  and  mostly  because  I  knew  my  brother  would 
complain.  And  now  he  goes  and  misses  the  train — through 
laziness,  or  indifference,  or  wanting  to  be  too  sharp — 

"  I  should  think  that  Baby  would  be  much  better  off  on 
land  than  on  board  ship,"  said  Yolande,  with  a  smile. 

"Of  course.  Miss  Winterbourne,"  the  colonel  said. 
You're  quite  riglit.     A  baby  on  board  a  ship  is  a  nuisance." 

"Jim  !     You  don't  deserve — 

"And  there's  another  thing,"  continued  tlie  stout  and 
grizzled  soldier,  with  the  most  stolid  composure.  "  I've 
seen  it  often  on  board  ship.  I  know  what  liappens.  If 
the  mother  of  the  baby  is  old  or  ugly,  it's  all  right ;  the 
baby  is  let  alone.  But  if  she's  young  and  good-looking,  it's 
wonderful  how  the  young  fellows  begin  and  pet  the  baby, 
and  feed  it  up  on  toffy  and  oranges.  What  do  tliey  know? 
Hang  'em,  they'd  fetch  up  pastry  from  the  saloon  and  give 
it  to  a  two-year-old.     That  ain't  good  for  a  baby." 

"Poor  Archie!  "said  his  wife,  rather  inconsequently ; 
"  it  will  be  such  a  disappointment  for  him." 

"  I'll  tell  you  what  it  is,"  said  Colonel  Graham  ;  "  I  be- 
lieve he  has  never  heard  that  the  P.  and  O.  sl)ips  don't  stop 
at  Southampton  now.  Never  mind,  Polly  ;  he  can  go  over- 
land, if  he  wants  to  catch  us  up  at  Cairo." 

"  And  miss  the  whole  voyage  !  "  she  exclaimed,  aghast. 
"And  forfeit  his  passage  money?  Fancy  the  cost  of  the 
railway  journey  to  Brindisi !  " 

"  Well,  if  people  will  miss  trains,  they  must  pay  the 
penalty,"  her  husband  remarked,  quietly;  and  there  was  an 
end  of  that. 

At  Tilbury  there  was  the  usual  scramble  of  getting 
the  luggage  transferred  to  the  noisy  little  tender ;  and  the 
natural  curiosity  with  which  q\'qv'^  one  was  eager  to  scan 
t^e  great  and  stately  vessel  which  was  to  be  their  floating 
home  for  many  a  day.  And  here  there  was  a  surprise  for 
at  least  one  of  the  party.  When,  after  long  delays,  and 
after  a  hurried  steaming  out  into  the  river,  tho  fonder  was 


80  YOLANDE. 

drawing  near  the  side  of  the  huge  steamer,  of  course  all 
eyes  were  turned  to  the  decks  above,  where  the  picturesque 
costumes  of  the  lascar  crew  were  the  most  conspicuous 
points  of  color.  But  tliere  were  obviously  a  number  of 
other  people  on  board,  besides  the  dusky  crew  and  their 
English  officers. 

*'  There  he  is — I  can  make  bin  out,"  observed  Colonel 
Graham. 

**  Who  ?  "  his  wife  asked. 

**  Why,  the  Master  of  Lynn,"  he  answered,  coolly. 
"  Well,  I  never !  "  she  exclaimed,  in   either  real  or  af- 
fected anger.     "  Sha'n't  I  give  it  to  him  !     To  think  of  his 
causing  us  all  this  disquietude  !  " 

**  Speak  for  yourself,  Polly,"  her  husband  said,  as  he  re- 
garded a  group  of  young  men  who  were  up  on  the  hurri- 
cane-deck leaning  over  the  rail  and  watching  the  a])proach 
of  the  tender.  "  I  wasn't  much  put  out,  was  I  ?  And  ap- 
parently he  hasn't  been,  for  he  is  smoking  a  cigar  and  chat- 
tmg  to — yes,  by  Jove  1  it's  Jack  Douglas,  and  young  Mac- 
kenzie of  Sleat ;  oh,  there's  Ogilvy's  brother-in  law — what 
do  you  call  him  ? — the  long  fellow  Avho  broke  his  leg  at 
Bombay;  there's  young  Fraser,  too,  eyeglass  and  all — a 
regular  gathering  of  the  clans.  Theie'll  be  some  Nap  going 
among  those  boys ! "  \ 

**  I  hope  you  won't  let  Archie  play,  then,"  his  wife  said, 
sharply.  But  she  turned  with  a  charming  little  smile  to 
Yolande.  "  You  mustn't  think  my  brother  is  a  gambler,  you 
know,  dear ;  but  really  some  of  those  young  officers  play  far 
beyond  their  means,  and  Archie  is  very  popular  amongst 
them  I  am  told." 

But  by  this  time  everybody  was  scrambling  on  to  the 
paddle-boxes  of  the  tender,  and  from  thence  ascending  to 
the  deck  of  the  steamer.  The  Master  of  Lynn  was  standing 
by  the  gangway  awaiting  his  sister.  He  was  a  young  man 
of  four  or  five  and  twenty,  slim,  well  built,  wilh  a  j)ale  olive 
complexion  and  a  perfectly  clean-shaj\'en  face  ;  and  he  had 
the  square  forehead,  the  well-marked  eyebrows,  and'^'the 
])leasant  gray  eyes  with  the  dark  eyelashes  that  his  sister 
had.  But  he  had  not  her  half-curly  hair,  for  his  was  shorn 
bare,  in  soldier  fashion,  though  he  was  not  a  soldier. 

"  How  are  you,  Graham  ?  How  are  you,  Polly?  "  said 
he. 

"  Well,  I  like  your  coolness  !  "  his  sister  said,  angrily. 
t<  Why  were  you  not  at  the  station  ^    Why  did  you  not  tell 


YOLANDE,  *»\-  3  J 

ns  ?  Of  course  we  thought  you  had  missed  the  train.  1 
wish  you  would  take  the  trouble  to  let  people  know  what 
you  are  about.— Let  rae  introduce  you  to  Miss  Winter- 
bourne.  Yolande  dear,  this  is  ray  brother  Archie. — Mr. 
Winterbourne,  my  brother,  Mr.  Leslie. — Well,  now,  what 
liave  you  to  say  for  yourself?  " 

lie  had  thrown  away  bis  cigar, 

"  Not  much,"  said  he,  smiling  good-naturedly  and  taking 
some  wraps  and  things  from  her  wliich  her  husband  had 
selfishly  allowed  her  to  carry.  "  I  went  down  to  see  some 
fellows  at  Chatham  last  night,  and  of  course  I  stayed  there, 
and  came  over  in  the  morning.  Sorry  I  vexed  you.  You 
see.  Miss  Winterbonrne,  my  sister  likes  platform  parade ; 
she  likes  to  have  ])eople  round  her  for  half  an  hour  before 
the  train  starts ;  and  she  likes  to  walk  up  and  down,  for  it 
shows  off  her  figure  and  her  dress:  isn't  that  so,  Polly? 
But  you  hadn't  half  your  display  this  morning,  apparently. 
Where's  Baby  ?     Where's  Ayah  ?  " 

"  You  know  very  well.  You  would  have  been  grumbling 
all  the  time  if  I  had  brought  Baby." 

"Well,"  said  he,  looking  rather  aghast,  "if  you've  left 
Baby  behind  on  my  account  I  shall  have  a  pleasant  time  of 
it.  I  don't  believe  you.  But  tell  me  the  number  of  your 
cabin,  and  I'll  take  these  things  down  for  you.  I'm  on  the 
spardeck,  thank  goodness!  " 

"  Miss  Winterbourne's  cabin  is  next  to  mine ;  so  you 
can  take  her  things  down  too." 

"No,  thank  you,"  said  Yolande,  who  was  looking  out 
for  her  luggage  (her  maid  being  in  a  hopeless  state  of  be- 
wilderment), and  who  had  nothing  in  her  hand  but  the  little 
basket.     "  I  will  take  this  down  myself  by  and  by." 

There  was  a  great  bustle  and  confusion  on  board  ;  friends 
giving  farewell  messages ;  passengers  seeking  out  their 
cabins;  the  bare-armed  and  barefooted  lascars,  with  their 
blue  blouses  and  red  turbans,  hoisting  luggage  on  to  their 
shoulders  and  carrying  it  along  the  passages.  Mr.  Winter- 
bourne  was  impatient. 

"I  hate  this — this  confusion  and  noise,"  he  said. 

"  But,  papa,"  said  Yolande,  "  I  know  your  tilings  as  well 
as  my  own.  Jane  and  I  will  see  to  them  when  they  come 
onboard.  Please  go  away  and  get  some  lunch — please! 
Everything  will  be  quiet  in  a  little  while." 

"  I  wish  we  were  off,"  he  said,  in  the  same  impatient 
way.     "  This  delay  is  quite  unnecessary.     It  is  always  the 


32  YOLANDE. 

same.  We  ought  to  have  started  before  now.    Wliy  doesn*! 
the  captain  order  the  ship  to  be  cleared  ?  " 

"  Papa  dear,  do  go  and  get  places  at  the  table.  The 
Grahams  have  gone  below.  And  have  something  very  nice 
waiting  for  me.  See,  there  comes  your  other  portmanteau 
now ;  and  there  is  only  the  topee-box  ;  and  I  know  it  be- 
cause I  put  a  bit  of  red  silk  on  the  handle.  Papa,  do  go 
down  and  get  us  comfortable  places — I  will  come  as  soon 
as  I  have  sent  your  topee-box  to  your  cabin.  I  suppose  we 
shall  be  near  the  Grahams." 

"  Oh,  I  know  where  Mrs.  Graham  will  be,"  her  father 
said,  peevishly.  "  She  will  be  next  the  captain.  She  is  the 
sort  of  woman  who  always  sits  next  the  captain." 

"  Then  the  captain  is  very  lucky,  papa,"  said  Yolande, 
mildly,  "  for  she  is  exceedingly  nice  ;  and  she  has  been  ex- 
ceedingly kind  to  me." 

"  I  suppose  the  day  will  come  when  this  captain,  or  any 
other  captain,  would  be  just  as  glad  to  have  you  sit  next 
him,"  he  said. 

"  Papa,"  she  said,  with  a  smile,  "  are  you  jealous  of  Mrs. 
Graham  for  my  sake  ?  I  am  sure  I  do  not  wish  to  sit  next 
the  captain  ;  I  have  not  even  seen  him  yet  that  1  know  of." 

But  this  delay,  necessary  or  unnecessary,  made  him  ir- 
ritable and  anxious.  He  would  not  go  to  the  saloon  until 
he  had  seen  all  the  luggage — both  his  and  Yolande's — des- 
patched to  their  respective  cabins.  Then  he  began  to  in- 
quire why  the  ship  did  not  start.  Why  were  the  strangers 
not  packed  off  on  board  the  tender  and  sent  ashore  ?  Why 
did  the  chief  officer  allow  these  boats  to  be  hanging  about? 
The  agent  of  the  company  had  no  right  to  be  standing  talk- 
ing on  deck  two  hours  after  the  ship  was  timed  to  sail. 

Meanwhile  Yolande  stole  away  to  her  own  cabin,  and 
carefully  and  religiously — and,  indeed,  with  a  little  clioking 
in  the  throat — opened  the  little  basket  that  held  the  flowers, 
to  see  whether  they  might  not  be  the  better  for  a  liltlo 
sprinkling  of  water.  They  were  rather  ex})ensive  llowern 
for  a  poor  woman  to  have  bought,  and  the  damp  moss  in 
which  they  were  imbedded  and  the  basket  itself  also  were 
more  suggestive  of  Covent  Garden  than  of  Whitccha))el. 
Yolande  poured  some  water  into  the  wnshhand  basin,  and 
dipped  her  fingers  into  it,  and  very  carefully  and  tenderly 
sprinkled  the  flowers  over.  And  then  she  considered  what 
was  likely  to  be  the  coolest  and  safest  place  in  the  cabin  for 


yOLANDE.  35 

them,  and  hung  the  basket  there,  and  came  out  again — ■ 
shutting  the  door,  involuntarily,  with  quietness. 

She  passed  through  the  saloon,  and  went  up  on  deck. 
Her  father  was  still  there. 

"  Papa,"  said  she,  "  you  are  a  very  unnatural  person. 
You  are  starving  me." 

"Haven't  you  had  lunch,  Yolande ?"  said  he,  with  a 
sudden  compunction. 

"  No,  I  have  not.  Do  I  ever  have  lunch  without  you  ? 
I  am  waiting  for  you." 

"  Really,  this  delay  is  most  atrocious  !  "  he  said.  "  Wliat 
is  the  use  of  advertising  one  hour  and  sailing  at  another  ? 
There  can  be  no  excuse.     The  tender  has  gone  ashore." 

"  Oh,  but,  papa,  they  say  there  is  a  lady  who  missed  the 
train,  and  is  coming  down  by  a  special — " 

"  I  don't  believe  a  word  of  it.  Why,  that  is  worse.  The 
absurdity  of  keeping  a  ship  like  this  waiting  for  an  idiot  of 
a  woman  ! " 

**  I  am  so  hungry,  papa  !  " 

**  Well,  go  down  below,  and  get  something,  if  you  can. 
No  doubt  the  gross  mismanagement  reaches  to  the  saloon 
tables  as  well." 

She  put  her  hand  within  his  arm,  and  half  drew  him 
along  to  the  companionway. 

"  What  is  the  difference  of  an  hour  or  two."  said  she, 
"  if  we  are  to  be  at  sea  for  a  fortnight  ?  Perhaps  the  poor 
lady  who  is  coming  down  by  the  special  train  has  some  one 
ill  abroad.  And — and  besides,  papa,  I  am  so  very,  very, 
very  hungry !  " 

He  went  down  with  her  to  the  saloon,  and  took  h'is  place 
in  silence.  Yolande  sat  next  to  Mrs.  Graham,  who  was 
very  talkative  and  merry,  even  though  there  was  no  caj^tain 
in  his  place  to  do  her  honor.  Young  Archie  Leslie  was 
opposite ;  so  was  Colonel  Graham.  They  were  mostly 
idling ;  but  Yoland  was  hungry,  and  they  were  all  anxious  to 
help  her  at  once,  though  the  silent  dusky  stewards  knew 
their  duties  well  enough. 

By  and  by,  when  they  were  talking  about  anything  or 
nothing,  it  occurred  to  the  young  Master  of  Lynn  to  say, 

"I  suppose  you  don't  know  that  we  are  off?" 

"No!  impossible!"  was  the  general  cry. 

"  Oh,  but  we  are,  though.     Look  !  " 

Mr.  Winterbourne  quickly  got  up   and  went  to  on©  of 


a4  YOLANDE. 

the  ports ;  there,  undoubtedly,  were  the  river-banks  slowly, 
slowly  going  astern. 

He  went  back  to  his  seat,  putting  his  hand  on  Yolando'i 
shoulder  as  he  sat  down. 

"  Yolande,"  said  he,  "  do  you  know  that  we  are  off— 
really  and  truly  going  away  from  England — altogether  quit 
from  its  shores  ?  " 

His  manner  had  almost  instantly  changed.  His  spirits 
quickly  brightened  up.  He  made  himself  most  agreeable 
to  Mrs.  Graham;  and  was  humorous  in  his  quiet,  half- 
sardonic  way ,  and  was  altogether  pleased  with  the  appear- 
ance and  the  appointments  of  the  ship.  To  fancy  this  great 
mass  of  metal  moving  away  like  that,  and  the  throbbing  of 
the  screw  scarcely  to  be  detected ! 

"You  know,  my  dear  Mrs.  Graham,"  he  said  presently, 
"  this  child  of  mine  is  a  most  economical,  even  a  penurious, 
creature ;  and  I  must  depend  on  you  to  force  her  to  make 
]jroper  purchases  at  the  different  places — all  the  kinds  of 
things  that  women-folk  prize,  don't  you  know.  Lace,  now. 
AVhat  is  the  use  of  being  at  Malta  if  you  don't  buy  lace  ? 
And  embroideries  and  things  of  that  kind.  She  ought  to 
bring  back  enough  of  Eastern  silks  and  stuffs  to  last  her  a 
lifetime.  And  jewelry  too — silver  suits  her  very  well — she 
must  get  plenty  of  that  at  Cairo — " 

"  Oh,  you  can  leave  that  to  my  wife,"  Colonel  Graham 
said,  confidently.  "  She'd  buy  up  the  Pyramids  if  she 
could  take  them  home.     I'm  glad  it  won't  be  my  money." 

And  this  was  but  one  small  item  of  expectation.  The 
voyage  before  them  furnislied  forth  endless  hopes  and 
schemes.  They  all  adjourned  to  the  hurricane-deck;  and 
here  liis  mood  of  contented  clieerfuhiess  was  still  more 
obvious.  He  was  quite  delighted  with  tlie  cleanness  and 
order  of  the  ship,  and  witli  the  courtesy  of  the  captain,  and 
with  the  smart  look  of  the  officers;  and  he  even  expressed 
approval  of  the  pretty,  quiet,  not  romantic  scenery  of  the 
estuary  of  the  Thames.  Yoland  was  with  him.  When 
they  walked,  they  walked  arm  in  arm.  He  said  he  tliought 
the  Grahams  were  likely  to  be  excellent  companions  ;  Mrs. 
Graham  was  a  charming  woman  ;  there  was  a  good  deal  of 
quiet  humor  about  her  husband  ;  The  Master  of  Lynn  was 
a  frank-mannered  young  fellow,  with  honest  eyes.  His  step 
grew  jaunty.  He  told  Yolande  she  must,  when  in  Egypt, 
ijliy  at  least  half  a  dozen   Eastern  costumes,  the  more  gor- 


YOLANDE.  35 

geous  the  better,  so  that  she  should  never  be  at  a  loss  when 
asked  to  go  to  a  fancy-dress  ball. 

And  at  dinner,  too,  in  the  evening,  it  was  a  delight  to 
Y'olande  to  sit  next  to  him,  and  listen  to  his  chuckles  and 
his  little  jokes.  Care  seemed  to  have  left  him  altogether. 
Tiic  night,  when  they  went  on  deck  again,  was  dark  ;  but  a 
d.irk  night  pleased  him  as  much  as  anytiiing.  Yolande  was 
walking  with  him. 

And  then  they  sat  down  witli  their  friends:  and  Mrs. 
Graham  had  much  to  talk  about.  Yolande  sat  silent.  Far 
away  in  the  darkness  a  long  thin  dull  line  of  gold  was 
visible ;  she  had  been  told  that  these  were  the  lights  of 
Hastings.  It  is  a  strange  thing  to  sail  past  a  country  in  the 
night-time  and  to  think  of  all  the  beating  human  hearts  it 
contains — of  the  griefs,  and  despairs,  and  hushed  joys  all 
hidden  away  there  in  the  silence.  And  perhaps  Yolande  was 
thinking  most  of  all  of  the  poor  mother — whose  name  she 
did  not  know,  whom  she  should  never  see  again — but  whose 
heart  she  knew  right  well  was  heavy  that  night  with  its 
aching  sorrow.  It  was  her  first  actual  contact  with  human 
misery,  and  she  could  not  help  thinking  of  the  woman's 
face.  That  was  terrible,  and  sad  beyond  anything  that  she 
could  have  imagined.  For  indeed  her  own  life  so  far  had 
been  among  the  roses.  As  Mrs.  Graham  had  said,  she  was 
but  a  child. 


CHAPTER  V. 

MRS.    BELL. 

"  It  is  really  quite  wonderful  how  intimate  you  become 
with  people  on  board  ship,  and  how  well  you  get  to  know 
them.-*' 

This  not  entirely  novel  observation  was  addressed  to 
Yolande  by  the  Master  of  Lynn,  while  these  two,  with  some 
half-dozen  others,  were  grouped  together  in  the  companion, 
way,  where  they  had  taken  shelter  from  the  flying  seas. 
The  remark  was  not  new,  but  he  appeared  to  think  it  im- 
portant.    He  seemed  anxious  to  convince  her  of  its  truth. 

*'  It  is  really  quite  wonderful,"  he  repeated ;  aad  he  re- 


3G  YOLANDR. 

garded  the  pretty  face  as  if  eager  to  meet  with  acquiescence 
there.  "  On  board  ship  you  get  to  know  the  characters  ol 
people  so  thoroughly^  you  can  tell  whether  the  friendsliip 
is  likely  to  last  after  the  voyage  is  over.  Balls  and  dinner 
parties  are  of  no  use;  that  is  only  acquaintanceship  ;  at  sea 
you  are  thrown  so  much  together ;  you  are  cut  off  from  the 
world,  you  know ;  there  is  a  kind  of  fellow-feeling  and  com- 
panionship— that — that  is  quite  different.  Why,"  said  he, 
with  his  eyes  brightening,  "  it  seems  absurd  to  think  that 
the  day  before  yesterday  you  and  I  were  absolute  strangers, 
and  yet  here  you  have  been  letting  me  bore  you  for  hours 
by  talking  of  Lynn  and  the  people  there — " 

"  Oh,  I  assure  you  I  am  very  grateful,"  said  Yo- 
lande,  with  much  sincerity.  "But  for  you  I  should  have 
been  quite  alone." 

The  fact  is,  they  had  encountered  a  heavy  two  days' 
gale  outside  the  Bay  of  Biscay  and  south  of  that ;  and  as 
the  ship  was  a  pretty  bad  roller,  sad  havoc  was  wrought 
among  the  passengers.  Mrs.  Graham  had  disappeared 
from  the  outset.  Her  husband  was  occasionally  visible; 
but  he  was  a  heavy  man,  and  did  not  like  being  knocked 
about,  so  ho  remained  mostly  in  the  saloon.  Mr.  Win- 
terbourne  was  a  good  enough  sailor,  but  the  noises  at  night 
— he  had  a  spar-deck  cabin — kept  him  awake,  and  he  spent 
the  best  part  of  the  daytime  in  his  berth  trying  to  get  fitful 
snatches  of  sleep.  Accordingly,  Yolande,  who  wanted  to 
see  the  sights  of  the  storm,  betook  herself  to  the  companion- 
way,  where  she  would  have  been  entirely  among  strangers 
(being  somewhat  reserved  in  her  walk  amd  conversation) 
had  it  not  been  for  Mr.  Leslie.  He,  indeed,  proved  himself 
to  be  a  most  agreeable  companion — modest,  assiduously 
attentive,  good-natured,  and  talkative,  and  very  respectful. 
He  was  entirely  governed  by  her  wishes.  He  brought  her 
the  news  of  the  shi]),  when  it  was  not  every  one  who  would 
venture  along  the  deck,  dodging  the  heavy  seas.  He  got 
her  the  best  corner  in  this  corapanionway,  and  the  most 
comfortable  of  the  chairs ;  and  he  had  rugs  for  her,  and  a 
book,  only  that  she  was  too  far  much  interested  in  what  was 
going  on  around  her  to  read.  Once  or  twice,  when  she 
would  stand  by  the  door,  he  even  ventured  to  put  his  hand 
on  her  arm,  afraid  lest  she  should  be  overbalanced  and 
thrown  out  on  the  swimming  decks.  For  there  was  a  kind 
of  excitement  amid  this  roar  and  crash  of  wind  and  water. 
Who  could  decide  which  was  the  grander  spectacle — tliat 


YOLANDE.  37 

great  mass  of  driven  and  tossing  and  seething  silver  that 
went  out  and  out  until  it  met  a  wall  of  black  cloud  at  the 
horizon,  or  the  view  from  the  other  side  of  the  vessel  (with 
one's  back  to  the  sunlight) — the  mountains  of  blue  rolling 
by,  and  their  crests  so  torn  by  the  gale  that  the  foam  ended 
in  a  rainbow  flourish  of  orange  and  red  ? 

"They  say  she  is  rolling  eighty-four  degrees  '  out  and 
out, '  "  said  Archie  Leslie. 

"  Oh,  indeed,"  said  Yolande,  looking  grave.  **  But  I 
don't  know  what  that  means." 

"Neither  do  I,"  said  he  ;  "  but  it  sounds  well.  What  I 
do  know  is  that  you  won't  see  my  sister  till  we  get  to  Gib. 
You  seem  to  be  a  capital  sailor.  Miss  Winterbourne." 

"  I  have  often  had  to  be  ashamed  of  it,"  said  Yolande. 
**  To-day,  also — there  was  no  other  lady  at  the  table — oh,  I 
cannot  sit  alone  like  that  any  more  ;  no,  I  will  rather  have 
no  dinner  than  go  and  sit  alone;  it  is  terrible — and  the 
captain  laughing." 

"Poor  fellow,  he  is  not  in  a  laughing  mood  just  now." 

**  Why,  then  ?     There  is  no  danger  ?  " 

"  Oh  no.  But  I  hear  he  has  had  his  head  cut  open — a 
chronometer  falling  on  him  in  his  cabin.  But  I  think  he'll 
show  up  at  dinner  ;  it  is  only  a  flesh  wound.  They've  had 
one  of  the  boats  stove  in,  they  say,  and  some  casks  carried 
away,  and  a  good  deal  of  smashing  forward.  I  wonder  if 
your  father  has  got  any  sleep — I  should  think  not.  I'll  go 
and  see  how  he  is  getting  on  if  you  like  ?  " 

"  Oh  no ;  if  he  is  asleep,  that  is  very  well.  No,"  said 
Yolande;  "  I  wish  you  to  tell  me  moi-e  about  your  friend 
— tlie  gentleman  who  was  your  tutor.  That  is  a  very 
strange  life  for  any  one  to  live." 

What  she  wished  was  enough  for  him. 

"  I  have  not  told  you  the  strangest  ])art  of  the  story," 
said  he,  "  for  you  would  not  believe  it." 

"  Am  I  so  unbelieving  ?  "  she  said,  looking  up. 

His  eyes  met  hers — but  only  for  an  instant.  Yolande's 
eyes  were  calm,  smiling,  unconcerned  ;  it  was  not  in  them, 
at  all  events,  that  any  confusion  lay. 

"  Of  course  I  do  not  mean  that,"  said  he ;  "  but — ^but  one 
has  one's  character  for  veracity,  don't  you  know — and  if  I 
were  to  tell  you  about  Mrs.  Bell — the  story  is  too  im- 
probable." 

"  Then  it  is  about  Mrs.  Bell  that  T  wish  to  hear,"  said 
Yolande,  in  her  gentle,  imperious  way. 


38  YOLANDE. 

''  Besides,  IVe  bored  you  all  day  long  aoout  those 
people  in  Inverness-shire.  You  will  think  I  have  never  seen 
any  one  else,  and  never  been  anywhere  else.  Now  I  would 
much  rather  hear  about  the  Chateau  and  the  })eople  there. 
I  want  you  to  tell  me  what  you  thought  of  America — after 
living  in  that  quiet  place." 

*'  What  I  thought  of  America !  "  said  Yolande,  with  a 
laugh.     "That  is  a  question  indeed  !  " 

"  Isn't  it  the  question  that  all  Americans  ask  of  yon  ? 
You  have  heard  enough  about  the  Inverness-shire  people. 
'J'ell  me  about  Rennes.  Have  you  seen  much  of  Paris? 
Did  you  like  the  Parisians  ?  " 

"  Ah,"  said  she,  "you  are  not  so  obedient  to  me  as  my 
papa  is." 

"  Fathers  in  Scotland  are  made  of  sterner  stuff,  I  should 
think,"  he  answered.     "We  don't  talk  that  way." 

"  Now  listen,"  she  said.  "  I  have  the  picture  before  me 
— everything  complete — the  lake,  and  Lynn  Towers,  the 
mountains  and  moorland,  also  the  ravines  where  the  deer 
take  shelter — oh  yes,  I  can  see  all  that  quite  clear,  but  the 
central  figure,  that  is  absent." 

"The  central  figure?" 

"  Mrs.  Bell." 

He  had  quite  forgotten  about  that  lady,  now  he 
laughed. 

"Oh  no,"  he  said  ;  "Mrs.  Bell  is  not  so  important  as 
that.   She  has  nothing  to  do  with  Lynn.    She  lives  at  Gress." 

"Well,  thai  is  a  beginning  at  all  events,"  she  remarked, 
with  a  slight  shrug  of  the  shoulders. 

"  Oh,  but  must  I  really  tell  you  the  story?  You  will 
try  hard  to  believe  ?  " 

•*I  am  not  unbelieving." 

"  Very  well,  then.  I  will  tell  you  about  Mrs.  Bell,  for  I 
hope  some  day  you  will  see  her." 

She  looked  up  inquiringly. 

"Yes,  I  am  going  to  ask  your  father  to  take  a  moor  up 
there  that  I  know  of,  and  of  coprsc  you  would  come  to  the 
lodge.  If  he  cares  about  grouse-shooting  and  isn't  afraid 
of  hard  work,  it  is  the  very  place  for  him.  Then  you  would 
see  my  friend  Melville,  who  ought  to  be  Meville  of  Mona- 
glen  by  I'ights,  and  maybe  he  will  before  Mrs.  Bell  has  done 
with  him." 

"  Mrs.  Bell  again !  Then  I  am  to  hear  about  her  after 
all  ?  " 


YOLANDE.  89 

"  Very  well,  then.  Mrs.  Bell  is  not  Mrs.  Bell,  but  Miss 
Bell,  only  they  call  her  '  Mrs.'  because  she  is  an  elderly  lady, 
and  is  rich,  and  is  a  substantial  and  matronly-looking  kind 
of  person.  Of  course  you  won't  believe  the  story,  but  never 
mind.  Mrs.  Bell  was  cook  to  the  Melvilles — that  was  years 
and  years  ago,  before  old  Mr,  Melville  died.  But  she  was 
an  ambitious  party,  and  Gress  wasn't  enough  for  her.  She 
could  read,  and  it  isn't  every  Highland  servant  lass  who 
can  do  that.  She  read  cookery  books  and  made  experi- 
ments. Now  you  see  the  adventures  of  Mrs.  Bell  don'i 
make  a  heroic  story." 

*'But  I  am  listening,"  said  Yolande,  with  a  calm  air. 

"She  got  to  be  rather  clever,  though  there  was  not 
much  chance  for  her  in  the  Melvilles'  house.  Then  she 
went  to  Edinburgh.  All  this  is  plain  sailing.  She  got  a 
situation  in  a  hotel  there  ;  then  she  was  allowed  to  try  what 
she  could  do  in  the  cooking  line  ;  then  she  was  made  liead 
cook.  That  is  the  end  of  chapter  one  ;  and  1  suppose  you 
believe  me  so  far.  Tears  went  on,  and  Kirsty  was  earning 
a  good  wage  ;  and  all  that  we  knew  of  her  was  that  she 
used  to  send  small  sums  of  money  occasionally  to  lielp  one 
or  two  of  the  poor  people  in  Gress  who  had  been  her  neigh- 
bors, for  she  had  neither  kith  nor  kin  of  her  own.  Then 
there  happened  to  come  to  the  hotel  in  Edinburgh  an  elderly 
English  gentleman  who  was  travelling  about  for  his  health, 
and  he  was  frightfully  anxious  about  his  food,  and  he  very 
much  appreciated  the  cooking  at  the  hotel.  lie  made  in- 
quiries. He  saw  Kirsty,  who  was  by  this  time  a  respectable 
middle-aged  woman,  getting  rather  gray.  What  docs  the 
old  maniac  do  but  tell  her  that  he  has  only  a  few  years  to 
live;  that  the  cooking  of  his  food  is  about  the  most  iuijjor- 
tant  tiling  to  Kim  in  the  world ;  that  he  has  no  near  rel- 
atives to  inherit  his  property ;  and  that  if  she  will  go  to 
Leicestershire  and  bind  herself  to  remain  cook  in  his  house 
as  long  as  he  lived,  he  will  undertake  to  leave  her  every 
penny  lie  possessed  when  he  died.  'I  will,' says  Kirsty, 
but  she  was  a  wise  woman,  and  she  went  to  the  lawyers; 
and  had  everything  properly  settled.  Shall  I  go  on,  Miss 
Winterbourne  ?  I  don't  think  my  heroine  interests  you. 
I  wish  you  could  see  old  Mrs.  Bell." 

"  Oh  yes,  go  on.  That  is  not  so  unbelievable.  Of  course 
I  believe  you.     Is  it  necessary  to  say  that?  " 

Yulande's  dignity  was  a  little  bit  disturbed  at  this  mo- 


40  YOLANDE. 

ment  by  a  scattering  of  spray  around  her  ;  but  she  quickly 
dried  her  red-gold  hair  and  the  smooth  oval  of  her  cheeks. 

"  What  comes  after  is  a  good  bit  stranger,"  he  continued. 
•'  The  old  gentleman  died  ;  only  he  lived  much  longer  than 
anybody  expected  ;  and  Kirsty,  at  the  age  of  fifty-eight  or 
so,  found  herself  in  possession  of  an  income  of  very  near 
£4000  a  year — well,  I  believe  it  is  more  than  that  now, 
for  the  property  has  increased  in  value.  And  now  begins 
what  I  can't  tell  you  half  well  enough — I  wish  you  could  hear 
Mrs.  BelPs  own  account — I  mean  of  the  schemes  that  people 
laid  to  inveigle  her  into  a  marriage.  You  know  she  is  rather 
a  simple  and  kindly  hearted  woman  ;  but  she  believes  herself 
to  be  the  very  incarnation  of  shrewdness ;  and  certainly  on 
that  one  point  she  showed  herself  shrewd  enough.  When 
my  sister  re-appears  on  deck  again,  you  say  to  her,  *  Kirsty 
kenned  better,'  and  see  if  she  does  not  recognize  the  phrase. 
Mrs.  Bell's  description  of  the  various  offers  of  marriage  she 
has  had  beats  anything;  but  it  was  always  *  Kirsty  kenned 
better.'     Yes  ;  and  among  these  was  a  formal  proposal  from 

Lord ;  I  mean  the  father  of  the  present  Lord ;  and 

that  proposal  was  twice  repeated.     You  know  the s  are 

awfully  poor;  and  that  one  was  at  his  wit's  end  for  money. 
But  Kirsty  was  not  to  be  caught.  Among  other  things  he 
stipulated  that  he  was  to  be  allowed  to  spend  eight  months 
of  the  year  in  London,  she  remaining  either  in  Leicestershire 
or  in  the  Highlands,  as  she  pleased.     More  than  that,  he 

even  got  the  duke  of to  write  to  Miss  Bell,  and  back  up 

the  suit,  and  promise  that,  if  she  would  consent,  ho  would 
himself  go  down  and  give  her  away." 

"  The  great  Duke  of ?  "  said  Yolande,  with  her  eyes 

a  little  bit  wider. 

"  Yes ;  the  late  Duke.  I  thought  I  should  astonish  you. 
But  I  have  seen  the  Duke's  letter ;  it  is  one  of  Mrs.  Bell's 
proudest  possessions.  I  have  no  doubt  you  will  see  it  for 
yourself  some  day.     But  Kirsty  kenned  better." 

"  What  did  she  do  then  ?  " 

'*  What  did  she  do  ?  She  went  back  to  Gross  like  a  sen- 
sible woman.  And  she  is  more  than  sensible — she  is  remark- 
ably good-natured  ;  and  she  sought  out  the  son  of  her  old 
master — that's  my  friend  Melville,  you  know,  and  then  she 
tried  all  her  flattery  and  shrewdness  on  him  until  she  got 
him  persuaded  that  he  should  live  in  Gress — he  was  cadging 
about  for  another  tutorship  at  the  time— and  make  a  sort  of 
model  village  of  it,  and  have  old  Kirsty  for  his  housekeeper. 


YOLANDR.  41 

Oh,  she's  clever  enough  in  her  way.  She  has  picked  up  very- 
good  manners ;  she  can  hold  her  own  with  anybody.  And 
she  manages  Melville  most  beautifully ;  and  lie  isn't  easy 
to  manage.  She  is  always  very  respectful,  and  makes  him 
believe  he  is  doing  her  a  great  kindness  in  spending  her 
money  in  improving  the  village,  and  all  that ;  but  what  she 
really  means,  of  course,  is  that  he  should  be  a  kind  of  small 
laird  in  the  place  that  used  to  belong  to  his  people.  And 
that  is  what  that  woman  means  to  do  ;  I  know  it — I  am 
certain  of  it.  If  ever  Monaglen  comes  into  the  market  she'll 
snap  it  up ;  she  must  have  a  heap  saved.  Sooner  or  later 
she'll  make  Jack  Melville  'Melville  of  Monaglen,'  as  sure  as 
he's  alive." 

"You  and  he  are  great  friends,  then?" 

"  Oh,  he  rather  sits  upon  me,"  the  Master  of  Lynn  said, 
modestly ;  "  but  we  are  pretty  good  friends,  as  things  go." 

The  gale  did  not  abate  much  that  afternoon ;  on  the 
contrary,  the  great  ship  seemed  to  be  rolling  more  heavily 
than  ever;  and  at  one  minute  a  little  accident  occurred 
that  might  have  been  attended  with  more  serious  con- 
sequences. Mr.  Winterbourne  and  young  Leslie,  not  being 
able  to  reach  the  smoking-room  on  account  of  the  seas 
coming  over  the  bows,  had  sought  shelter  on  a  bench  im- 
mediately aft  of  the  hurricane-deck,  and  there,  enveloped 
in  waterproof,  they  were  trying  to  keep  their  cigars  alight. 
Unfortunately  the  lashings  securing  this  bench  had  not 
been  very  strong,  and  at  one  bad  lurch  of  the  vessel — 
indeed,  the  deck  seemed  to  be  at  right  angles  with  the 
water  below  them — away  the  whole  thing  went,  spinning 
down  to  leeward.  Leslie  was  a  smart  young  fellow,  saw  what 
was  coming,  and  before  the  bench  had  reached  the  gunwale 
he  had  with  one  hand  swung  himself  on  to  the  ladder 
ascending  to  the  hurricane-deck,  while  with  the  other  he  had 
seized  hold  of  his  compaion's  coat.  Probably,  had  he  not 
l)eeTi  so  quick,  the  worst  that  could  have  happened  was  that 
tlie  two  of  them  might  have  had  a  thorough  sousing  in  the 
water  surging  along  the  scuppers  ;  but  when  Yolande  heard 
of  the  accident,  and  when  Mr.  Winterbourne  rather  sadly 
showed  her  his  waterproof,  whieh  had  been  half  torn  from 
his  back,  she  was  instantly  convinced  that  young  Leslie  had 
saved  her  fatlier's  life. 

In  consequence  she  was  much  less  imperious  and  wilful 
in  her  manner  all  that  afternoon,  and  was  even  timidly 
polite  to  him.     She  consented,  without  a  word,  to  go  down 


42  YOLANDE. 

to  dinner,  although  again  she  was  the  only  lady  at  table. 
And,  indeed,  dinner  that  evening  was  entirely  a  ludicrous 
j)erformance.  When  Mr.  Winterbourne  and  Yolande  and 
young  Leslie  got  to  the  foot  of  the  companion-stairs,  and 
with  much  clinging  prepared  to  enter  the  saloon,  the  first 
thing  they  saw  before  them  was  a  sudden  wave  of  white  that 
left  tlie  table  and  crashed  against  the  walls.  The  stewards 
regarded  the  broken  crockery  with  a  ghastly  smile,  bul 
made  no  immediate  effort  to  pick  up  the  fragments.  The 
"fiddles"  on  the  table  were  found  to  be  of  no  use  whatever. 
When  these  three  sat  down  they  could  only  make  sure  of 
such  things  as  they  could  keep  their  fingers  upon.  Buttress- 
ing was  of  no  avail.  Plates,  tumblers,  knives  and  forks, 
broke  away  and  steeple-chased  over  the  fiddles,  until  the 
final  smash  on  the  walls  brought  their  career  to  a  close. 
The  din  was  awful  ;  and  Mr.  Winterbourne  was  much  too 
anxious  about  the  objects  around  him  to  be  able  to  make  his 
customary  little  jokes.  But  they  got  through  it  somehow  ; 
and  the  only  result  of  these  wild  adventures  with  rocketing 
loaves  and  plates  and  bottles  was  that  Yolande  and  the 
young  Master  of  Lynn  seemed  to  be  on  more  and  more 
friendly  and  familiar  terms.  Yolande  talked  to  him  as 
frankly  as  if  he  had  been  her  brother. 

Next  day  matters  mended  considerably  ;  and  the  next 
again  broke  blue  and  fair  and  shining,  with  an  immense 
number  of  Mother  Gary's  chickens  skimming  along  the  sun- 
lit waters.  Far  away  in  the  south  the  pale  line  of  the 
African  coast  was  visible.  People  began  to  appear  on  deck 
who  had  been  hidden  for  the  last  couple  of  days ;  Mrs. 
Graham  was  up  and  smiling,  in  a  exceedingly  pretty  cos- 
tume. When  should  they  reach  Gibraltar  ?  Who  was  going 
ashore  ?     Were  there  many  "  Scorpions"  on  board  ? 

Yolande  was  not  much  of  a  politician  ;  but  her  father 
being  somewhat  of  a  "  Jingo,"  of  course  she  was  a  "  Jingo" 
too;  and  she  was  very  proud  when,  towards  the  afternoon, 
they  drew  nearer  and  nearer  to  the  great  gray  scarred  rock 
that  commands  the  Mediterranean  ;  and  her  heart  warmed  at 
the  sight  of  a  little  red  speck  on  one  of  the  ramparts — an 
English  sentry  keeping  guard  there.  And  when  they  went 
ashore,  and  wandered  through  the  streets,  she  had  as  much 
interest  in  plain  Tommy  Atkins  in  his  red  coat  as  in  any  of 
the  more  picturesquely  clad  Spaniards  or  Arabs  she  saw 
there;  and  when  they  went  into  the  Alameda  to  hear  the 
military   band  ]Jay,  she   knew   by    a  sort  of  instinct  that 


YOLANDE.  43 

among  the  ladies  sitting  in  their  cool  costumes  under  the 
maples  and  acacias  such  and  such  groups  were  English- 
women— the  wives  of  the  officers,  no  doubt — and  she  would 
have  liked  to  have  gone  and  spoken  to  them.  "  Gib."  seemed 
to  her  to  be  a4)it  of  England,  and  therefore  friendly  and 
familiar  ;  she  thought  the  place  looked  tremendously  strong ; 
and  she  was  glad  to  see  such  piles  of  sliot  and  ranged  rows 
of  cannon ;  and  she  had  a  sort  of  gratitude  in  her  heart 
toward  the  officers  and  the  garrison,  and  even  the  English- 
women sitting  there,  with  a  tint  of  sun-brown  on  their 
cheeks,  but  an  English  look  in  their  eyes.  And  all  this  was 
absurd  enough  in  a  young  minx  who  made  a  fool  of  English 
idioms  nearly  every  time  she  opened  her  mouth ! 

What  a  beautiful  night  that  was  as  they  sailed  away 
from  the  vast  Gray  Hock !  The  moon  was  growing  in 
strength  now,  and  the  heavens  were  clear.  The  passengers 
had  begun  to  form  their  own  little  groups ;  acquaintance- 
ships had  been  made  ;  chair  drawn  close  together  on  the 
deck,  in  the  silence,  under  the  stars.  And  down  there  the 
skylight  of  the  saloon  was  open,  and  there  was  a  yellow  glare 
coming  up  from  below,  also  the  sound  of  singing.  There 
were  at  duets  below — two  or  three  young  people ;  and 
whether  they  sang  well  or  ill,  the  effect  was  pleasant  enough, 
with  the  soft  murmur  of  the  Mediterranean  all  around. 
"Oh,  who  will  o'er  the  downs  so  free" — of  course  they  sang 
that ;  people  always  do  sing  that  on  board  ship.  Then 
they  sang,  "  I  would  that  my  love  could  silently,"  and  many 
another  old  familiar  air,  the  while  the  vessel  churned  on  its 
way  through  the  unseen  waters,  and  the  pale  shadows  tlirown 
by  the  moon  on  the  white  decks  slowly  moved  with  the  mo- 
tion of  the  vessel.     It  was  a  beautiful  night. 

The  Master  of  Lynn  came  aft  from  the  smoking-room, 
and  met  his  brother-in-law  on  the  way. 

"  This  is  better,  isn't  it  ?  "  said  Colonel  Graham.  "  Thii 
is  more  like  what  I  shipped  for." 

"  Yes,  this  is  better.  Do  you  know  where  the  Winter- 
bournes  are  ?  " 

"  In  the  saloon,     I  have  just  left  them  there." 

Young  Leslie  was  passing  on,  but  he  stopped. 

"I  say,  Graham,  I've  noticed  one  thing  on  board  this 
Bhip  already." 

'*  What  ?  " 

"  You  watch  to-morrow,  if  they're  both  on  deck  at  the 


44  YOLANDE. 

same  time.  You'll  find  that  Polly  has  got  al^,  the  men  about 
her,  and  Miss  Winterbourne  all  the  children.  Odd,  isn't 
it?" 


CHAPTER  VI. 

They  were  indeed  cut  off  from  the  rest  of  the  world,  as 
they  went  ploughing  their  way  through  these  blue  Mediter- 
ranean seas.  Day  after  day  brought  its  round  of  amuse- 
ments ;  and  always  the  sun  shining  on  the  white  decks ; 
and  the  soft  winds  blowing;  and  now  and  again  a  swallow, 
or  dove,  or  quail,  or  some  such  herald  from  unknown  coasts, 
taking  refuge  for  awhile  in  the  rigging,  or  fluttering  along 
by  the  vessel's  side.  There  was  an  amateur  photographer 
on  board,  moreover  ;  and  many  were'  the  groups  that  were 
formed  and  taken  ;  only  it  was  observed  that  when  the 
officers  were  included,  the  captain  generally  managed  to 
have  Yolande  standing  on  the  bridge  beside  him — a  piece 
of  favoritism  that  broke  through  all  rules  and  regulations. 
There  was  a  good  deal  of "  Bull "  played ;  and  it  was 
wonderful  how,  when  Mrs.  Graham  was  playing,  there 
always  happened  to  be  a  number  of  those  young  Highla'nd 
officers  about,  ready  to  pick  up  her  quoits  for  her.  And 
always,  but  especially  on  the  bright  and  breezy  forenoons, 
there  was  the  constitutional  tramp  up  and  down  the  long 
hurricane-deck — an  occupation  of  which  Yolande  was  par- 
ticularly fond,  and  in  which  she  found  no  one  could  keep 
up  with  her  so  untiringly  as  the  Master  of  Lynn.  She  was 
just  as  well  pleased,  however,  when  she  was  alone,  for  then 
she  sank  to  herself,  and  had  greater  freedom  in  flinging  her 
arms  about. 

"Look  at  her,"  her  father  said  one  morning  to  Mrs. 
Graham — concealing  his  admiration  under  an  air  of  chagrin. 
"  Wouldn't  you  think  she  was  an  octopus,  or  a  windmill, 
or  something  like  that  ?  " 

"  I  call  it  a  rattling  good  style  of  walking,"  said  Colonel 
Graham,  interposing.  "  Elbows  in ;  palms  out.  She  is  a 
remarkably  well-made  young  woman — that's  my  opinion." 

*'  But  she  isn't  an  octopus,"  her  father  said,  peevishly. 

"  Oh,  that  is  merely  an  excess  of  vitality,"  her  champion 


YOLANDE.  45 

said.  "Look  how  springy  her  walk  is  !  I  don't  believe 
her  heel  ever  touches  the  deck — all  her  walking  is  done 
with  the  front  part  of  her  foot.  Gad,  it's  infectious,"  con- 
tinued the  colonel,  witli  a  grim  laugh.  "  I  caught  myself 
trying  it  when  I  was  walking  with  her  yesterday.  But  it 
ain't  easy  at  fifteen  stone." 

"  She  need  not  make  herself  ridiculous,"  her  father 
said. 

*'  Ridiculous  ?  I  think  it's  jolly  to  look  at  her.  J\lakes 
one  feel  young  again.  She  don't  know  that  a  lot  of  fogies 
are  watching  her.  Bet  a  sovereign  she's  talking  about 
dancing.  Archie's  devilish  fond  of  dancing — so  he  ought 
»to  be  at  his  time  of  life.  They  say  they're  going  to  give 
us  a  ball  to-night — on  deck." 

Mrs.  Graham  was  a  trifle  impatient.  There  were  none 
of  the  young  officers  about,  for  a  wonder ;  they  had  gone 
to  have  their  after-breakfast  cigar  in  the  smoking-room — 
and  perhaps  a  little  game  of  Nap  therewithal.  This  study 
of  Yolande's  appearance  had  lasted  long  enough,  in  her 
opinion. 

"  It  is  clever  of  her  to  w^ear  nothing  on  her  head,"  she 
said,  as  she  took  up  a  book  and  arranged  herself  in  her 
chair.     "  Her  hair  is  her  best  feature." 

But  what  Yolande  and  her  companion,  young  Leslie, 
were  talking  about,  as  they  marched  up  and  down  tlie  long 
white  decks — occasionally  stopping  to  listen  to  a  small  group 
of  lascars,  who  were  chanting  a  monotonous  singsong 
refrain — had  nothing  in  the  world  to  do  with  dancing. 

"  You  think,  then,  I  ought  to  speak  to  your  father 
about  the  moor?     Would  you  like  it ?  "  said  he, 

"  I  ?  "  she  said.  "  That  is  nothing.  If  my  papa  and  I 
are  together,  it  is  not  any  difference  to  me  where  we  are. 
But  if  it  is  so  wild  and  remote,  that  is  what  my  papa  will 
like." 

"  Remote !  "  said  he,  with  a  laugh.  "  It  is  fourteen 
miles  away  from  anywhere.  I  like  to  hear  those  idiots 
talking  who  say  the  Highlands  are  overrun  with  tourists. 
Much  they  know  about  the  Highlands  !  Well,  now  they've 
got  the  railway  to  Oban,  I  suppose  that's  pretty  bad.  But 
this  place  that  I  am  telling  you  of — why,  you  would  not  see 
a  strange  face  from  one  year's  end  to  the  other." 

**  Oh,  that  wall  exactly  suit  my  papa — exactly,"  she  said, 
with  a  smile.  "  Is  it  very,  very  far  away  from  everything 
Aiid  every  one  ?  " 


46  YOLANDE. 

'*  Isn't  it  ?  "  he  said,  grimly.  "Why,  it's  up  near  the 
sky,  to  begin  with.  I  should  say  the  average  would  be 
near  three  thousand  feet  above  the  level  of  the  sea.  And 
as  for  remoteness — well,  perhaps  Kingussie  is  not  more 
than  twelve  miles  off  as  the  crow  flies  ;  but  then  you've  got 
the  Monalea  mountains  between  it  and  you  ;  and  the 
Monalea  mountains  are  not  exactly  the  sort  of  i)lace  that 
a  couple  of  old  ladies  would  like  to  climb  in  search  of  wild 
flowers.  You  see  that  is  the  serious  part  of  it  for  you,  Miss 
Winterbourne.  Fancy  the  change  between  the  temperature 
of  the  Nile  and  that  high  moorland — " 

"  Oh,  that  is   nothing,"  she  said.     "  So  long  as  I  am 
oat  of  doors  the  heat  or  the  cold  is  to  me  nothing — nothing* 
at  all." 

"  The  other  change,"  he  continued,  **  I  have  no  doubt 
would  be  striking  enough — from  the  busy  population  of 
Egypt  to  the  solitude  of  Allt-nam-Ba — " 

'*  What  is  it?    Allt— " 

"  Allt^nam-Ba.  It  means  the  Stream  of  the  Cows, 
though  there  are  no  cows  there  now.  They  have  some 
strange  names  up  there — left  by  the  people  who  have  gone 
away.  I  suppose- people  did  live  there  once,  though  wh^t 
they  lived  on  I  can't  imagine.  They  have  left  names,  any- 
way, some  of  them  smiple  enough — the  Fair  Winduig 
Water,  the  Dun  Water,  the  Glen  of  the  Horses,  the  Glen 
of  the  Gray  Loch,  and  so  forth — but  some  of  them  I  can't 
make  out  at  all.  One  is  the  Glen  of  the  Tombstone,  and  I 
have  searched  it,  and  never  could  find  any  trace  of  a  tomb- 
stone. One  is  the  Cairn  of  the  Wanderers,  and  they  must 
have  wandered  a  good  bit  before  they  got  up  there.  Then 
there  is  a  burn  that  is  called  the  Stream  of  the  Fairies — 
Uisge  nan  Sithena — that  is  simple  enough ;  but  there  is 
another  place  that  is  called  Black  Fairies.  Now  who  on 
earth  ever  heard  of  black  fairies  ?  " 

*'  But  it  is  not  a  frightful  place  ?  "  she  said.  '*  It  is  not 
terrible,  gloomy  ?  " 

**  Not  a  bit,"  said  he.  "  These  are  only  names.  No 
one  knows  how  they  came  there,  that  is  all.  Gloomy  ?  I 
think  the  strath  from  the  foot  of  the  moor  down  to  our 
place  is  one  of  the  prettiest  straths  in  Scotland." 

«  Then  I  should  see  Lynn  Tower  ?  "  she  said. 

"  Oh  yes ;  it  isn't  much  of  a  building,  you  know." 

"  And  Mr.  Melville  of  Monaglen — that  would  be  inter- 
eating  to  me." 


YOLANDE.  47 

"Oh  yes,"  said  he:  "but — but  I  wouldn't  call  liim 
Monaglen — do  you  see — he  hasn't  got  Monaglon  ;  pcrhiipa 
he  may  have  it  back  some  day.'* 

"And  you,"  she  said,  turning  her  clear  eyes  toward 
him,  "  sometimes  they  call  you  Master ;  is  it  right?" 

He  laughed  lightly. 

*'  Oh,  that  is  a  formal  title — in  Scotland.  Colonel  Gra- 
liam  makes  a  little  joke  of  it ;  I  su2)pose  that  is  what  you 
have  heard." 

"  I  must  not  call  you  so  ?  " 

"  Oh  no."  And  then  he  said,  with  a  laugh  :  "  You  may 
call  me  anything  you  like ;  what's  the  odds  ?  If  you 
want  to  please  my  brother-in-law  you  should  call  him 
Inverstroy." 

"But  how  can  I  remember?"  she  said,  holding  up  her 
fingers  and  counting.  "Not  Monaglen;  not  Master; 
but  yes,  Investroy.     And  Llrs.  Bell,  shall  I  see  her  ?  " 

"  Certainly,  if  you  go  there." 

"And  the  mill-wheels,  and  the  electric  lamps,  and  all 
the  strange  things  ?  " 

"  Oh  yes,  if  Jack  Melville  takes  a  fancy  to  you.  He 
doesn't  to  everybody." 

"  Oh,  I  am  not  anxious,"  she  said  with  a  little  dignity. 
"  I  do  not  care  much  about  such  things.  It  is  no  matter 
to  me." 

"  I  beg  your  pardon  a  thousand  times  !  "  he  said,  with 
much  earnestness,  "  Really,  I  was  not  thinking  of  what  I 
was  saying.  I  was  thinking  of  Jack  Melville's  ways.  Of 
course  he'll  be  delighted  to  show  you  everything — he  will 
be  perfectly  delighted.  He  is  awfully  courteous  to  stran- 
gers. He  will  be  quite  delighted  to  show  you  the  whole  of 
his  instruments  and  apparatus.'* 

"  It  is  very  obliging,"  she  said,  with  something  of  cold- 
ness, "  but  there  is  no  need  that  I  shall  be  indebted  to  Mr. 
\  Melville." 
"^         '•'  Not  of  Monaglen,"  he  said,  demurely. 

"Of  Monaglen,  or  not  of  Monaglen,"  she  said,  with  high 
indifference.  "  Come,  shall  we  go  and  find  my  papa,  and 
tell  him  about  the  wild,  far  place,  and  the  Stream  of  the 
Fairies  ?  " 

"  Ko,  wait  a  moment.  Miss  Winterbourne,"  said  he, 
with  a  touch  of  embarrassment.  "  You  see,  that  shooting 
belongs  to  my  father.  And  I  look  after  the  letting  of  our 
shootings  and  fishings  when  I  am  at  home,  though  of  course 


48  YOLANDE. 

we  have  an  agent.  Now — now  I  don't  quite  like  taking 
advantage  of  a  new  friendship  to — to  make  such  a  sugges- 
tion. 1  mean  I  would  rather  sink  the  shop.  Perhaps  your 
father  might  get  some  other  shooting  up  there." 

"  But  not  with  the  Glen  of  the  Black  Fairies,  and  the 
strath,  and  Lynn  Towers  near  the  loch  where  the  cliar  are, 
and  all  that  you  have  told  me.  No ;  if  I  am  not  to  so« 
Mrs.  Bell — if  I  am  not  to  see — "  She  was  going  to  say 
Mr.  Melville  of  Monaglen,  but  she  waved  that  aside  with  a 
gesture  of  petulance.  ''  No,  I  wish  to  see  all  that  y^  ii  liave 
told  me  about,  and  I  think  it  would  be  pleasant  if  we  were 
neighbors." 

"You  really  must  have  neighbors,"  said  he,  eagerly, 
''  in  a  place  like  that.  That  is  one  thing  certain.  I  am 
sure  we  should  try  to  make  it  as  pleasant  for  you  as  possi- 
ble. I  am  sure  my  father  would.  And  Polly  would  be  u}) 
sometimes — I  mean  Mrs.  Graham.  Oh,  I  assure  you,  if  it 
was  any  other  shooting  than  AUt-nam-Ba  I  should  be  very 
anxious  that  you  and  your  father  should  come  and  take  it. 
Of  course  the  lodge  is  not  a  grand  place." 

*'  We  will  go  and  talk  about  it  now,"  she  said,  "  to  my 
papa,  and  y®u  can  explain." 

Now,  as  it  turned  out,  although  Mr.  Winterbyurne  was 
rather  staggered  at  first  by  Yolande's  wild  project  of 
suddenly  changing  the  idle  luxuries  of  a  Nile  voyage  for 
the  severities  of  a  moorland  home  in  the  North,  there  was 
something  in  the  notion  that  attracted  him.  He  began  to 
make  inquiries.  The  solitariness,  the  remoteness,  of  the 
place  seemed  to  strike  him.  Then  850  brace  of  grouse,  a 
few  black  game,  a  large  number  of  mountain  hares,  and 
six  stags  was  a  good  return  for  nine  weeks'  shooting;  and 
the  last  tenant  had  not  had  experts  with  him.  Could 
Yolande  have  a  piano  or  a  harmonium  sent  to  her  away  in 
that  wilderness? — anything  to  break  the  silence  of  the 
moors.  And  Mr.  Winterbourne  was  unlike  most  peoj)le 
who  are  contemplating  the  renting  of  a  moor  ;  the  cost  of 
it  was  the  point  about  which  he  thought  least.  But  to  be 
away  up  there — with  Yolande. 

*'  Of  course  it  is  just  possible  that  the  place  may  have 
been  let  since  I  left,"  the  Master  of  Lynn  said.  "  We  have 
not  had  it  vacant  for  many  years  back.  But  that  could 
easily  be  ascertained  at  Malta  by  telegram." 

"You  think  you  would  like  the  place,  Yolande?"  her 
father  said. 


"  I  think  so  ;  yes." 

<*  You  would  not  die  of  cold  ?  " 

"  Not  willingly,  papa — I  mean  I  would  try  not — I  am 
not  afraid.  You  must  go  somewhere,  papa ;  there  is  no 
Parliament  there  ;  you  are  fond  of  shooting  ;  and  there 
will  be  many  days,  not  with  shooting,  for  you  and  rie  to 
wander  in  the  mountains.     I  think  that  will  be  nice." 

"  Very  well.  I  will  take  the  place,  Mr.  Leslie,  if  it  m 
still  vacant ;  and  I  hope  we  shall  be  good  neighbors ;  and 
if  you  can  send  us  a  deer  or  two  occasionally  into  the 
ravines  you  speak  of,  we  shall  be  much  obliged  to  you. 
And  now  about  dogs,  and  gillies,  and  ponies." 

But  this  proved  to  be  an  endless  subject  of  talk  between 
these  two,  both  then  and  thereafter  ;  and  so  Yolande  stole 
away  to  look  after  her  own  affairs.  Amongst  other  things 
she  got  hold  of  tlie  purser,  and  talked  so  coaxingly  to  him 
that  he  went  and  ordered  the  cook  to  make  two  sheets  of 
toffee  instead  of  one,  and  all  of  white  sugar ;  so  that  when 
Yolande  subsequently  held  her  afternoon  levee  among  the 
children  of  the  steerage  passangers  she  was  provided  with 
sweetstuff  enough  to  make  the  hearts  of  the  mothers  quake 
witli  fear. 

It  was  that  evening  that  she  had  to  put  the  flowers 
overboard — on  the  wide  and  sad  and  uncertain  grave.  She 
did  not  wish  any  one  to  see  her,  somehow;  she  could  not 
make  it  a  public  ceremony — this  compliance  with  the  pa- 
thetic, futile  wishes  of  the  poor  mother.  She  had  most 
carefully  kept  the  flowers  sprinkled  with  water,  and  despite 
of  that  they  had  got  sadly  faded  and  shrivelled ;  but  slie 
had  purchased  another  basketful  at  Malta,  and  these  were 
fresh  enough.  What  mattered  ?  The  time  was  too  vague  ; 
the  vessel's  course  too  uncertain ;  the  trifles  of  flowers 
would  soon  be  swallowed  up  in  the  solitary  sea.  But  it 
was  the  remembrance  of  the  mother  she  was  thinking 
of. 

She  chose  a  moment  when  every  one  was  down  below 
at  dinner,  and  the  deck  was  quite  deserted.  She  took  the 
two  little  baskets  to  the  rail ;  and  there,  very  slowly  and 
reverently,  she  took  out  handful  after  handful  of  the  flowers 
and  dropped  them  down  on  the  waves,  and  watched  them 
go  floatmg  and  floating  out  and  out  on  the  swaying  waters. 
I'he  tears  were  running  down  her  face ;  but  she  had  for- 
gotten whether  there  was  anybody  by  or  not.  She  was 
thinking  of  the  poor  woman  in  England.  Would  she  know? 


50  YOLANDE, 

Could  she  see  ?  Was  slie  sure  that  her  request  would  not 
be  forgotten  ?  And  indeed  she  had  not  gone  so  far  wrong 
when  she  had  trusted  to  the  look  of  Yolande's  face. 

Then,  fearing  her  al)sonce  might  be  noticed,  she  went 
quickly  to  her  cabin,  bathed  lier  eyes  in  cold  water,  and 
then  vent  below— where  she  found  the  little  coterie  at  tlieir 
end  ot  the  table  all  much  exercised  about  Mr.  Winter- 
bourne's  proposal  to  spend  the  autumn  among  the  wild  soli- 
tudes of  AUt-nam-Ba.  He,  indeed,  declared  he  had  nothing 
to  do  with  it.  It  was  Yolande's  doing.  He  had  never 
heard  of  Allt-nam-Ba. 

"  Tt  is  one  of  the  best  grouse  moors  in  Scotland,  I  admit 
that,"  Colonel  Graham  said,  with  an  ominous  smile ;  "  but 
it  is  a  pretty  stiffish  place  to  work  over." 

"  You  talk  like  that,  Jim,"  said  his  wife  (who  seemed 
anxious  that  the  Winterbournes  should  preserve  their  fancy 
for  the  place),  "  because  you  are  getting  too  stout  for  hill 
work.  We  shall  find  you  on  a  pony  soon.  I  should  like  to 
see  you  shooting  from  the  back  of  a  pony." 

"  Better  men  than  I  have  done  that,"  said  Inverstroy, 
goo<l-hunioredly. 

They  had  a  concert  that  night — not  a  ball,  as  was  at 
first  intended  ;  and  there  was  a  large  assemblage,  even  the 
young  gentlemen  of  the  smoking-room  having  forsaken 
their  Nap  when  they  heard  that  Mrs.  Graham  was  going  to 
sing.  And  very  well  she  sang,  too,  with  a  thoroughly 
trained  voice  of  very  considerable  compass.  She  sang  all 
the  new  society  songs,  about  wild  melancholies  and  regrets 
and  things  of  that  kind ;  but  her  voice  was  really  fine  in 
quality  ;  and  one  almost  believed  for  the  moment  that  the 
pathos  of  these  spasmodic  things  was  true.  And  then  her 
dress — how  beautifully  it  fitted  her  neat  little  shoulders  and 
waist !  Her  curly  short  hair  was  surmounted  by  a  coquet- 
tish cap ;  she  had  a  circle  of  diamonds  set  in  silver  round 
her  neck ;  but  there  were  no  rings  to  mar  the  symmetry  of 
her  plump  and  pretty  white  hands.  And  how  assiduous 
those  boy-officers  were,  although  deprived  of  their  cigars ! 
They  hung  round  the  piano  ;  they  turned  over  the .  music 
for  her — as  well  as  an  eyeglass  permitted  them  to  see  ;  nay, 
when  she  asked,  one  of  them  sent  for  a  banjo,  and  performed 
a  solo  on  that  instrument — performing  it  very  well  too. 
None  of  the  unmarried  girls  had  the  ghost  of  a  chance. 
Poor  Yolande,  in  her  plain  pale  pink  gown,  was  nowhere. 
All  eyes  were  directed  on  the  ])retty  little  figure  at  the 


YOLANDE.  51 

piano ;  on  the  stylish  costume ;  the  charming  profile,  with 
its  outward  sweep  of  black  lashes ;  on  the  graceful  arms 
and  white  fingers.  For  a  smile  from  those  clear  dark  gray- 
eyes  there  was  not  one  of  the  tall  youths  standing  there 
who  would  not  have  sworn  lo  abjure  sporting  newspapers 
for  the  rest  of  his  natural  life. 

There  was  only  one  drawback  to  the  concert,  as  a  con- 
cert. To  keep  the  saloon  cool  the  large  ])orts  astern  had 
been  opened,  and  the  noise  of  tlie  water  rushing  away  from 
the  screw  was  apt  to  drown  the  music. 

"Miss  Winterbourne,"  some  one  said  to  Yolande — nnd 
she  started,  for  she  had  been  sitting  at  one  of  the  taliles, 
imagining  herself  alone,  and  dreaming  about  the  music — 
"  one  can  hear  far  better  on  deck.  Won't  you  come  up 
and  try  ?  " 

It  was  the  Master  of  Lynn. 

"  Oh  yes,"  said  she  ;  "  thank  you." 

She  went  with  him  on  deck,  expecting  to  find  her  father 
there.  But  Mr.  Winterbourne  had  gone  to  the  smoking- 
room.  What  mattered?  All  companions  are  alike  on 
board  ship.  Young  Leslie  brought  her  a  chair,  and  put  it 
close  to  the  skylight  of  the  saloon,  and  he  sat  down  there 
too.  They  could  hear  pretty  well,  and  they  could  talk  in 
the  intervals.  The  night  was  beautifully  quiet,  and  the 
moonlight  whiter  than  ever  on  the  decks.  Tliese  Southern 
nights  were  soft  and  fitted  for  music ;  they  seemed  to  blend 
the  singing  below  and  the  gentle  rushing  of  the  sea  all 
around.  And  Yolande  was  so  friendly — and  frank  to  plain 
spokenness.  Once  or  twice  she  laughed ;  it  was  a  low, 
quiet,  pretty  laugh. 

Such  were  the  perils  of  the  deep  that  lay  around  them 
as  they  sailed  along  those  Southern  seas.  And  at  last  tiiey 
were  nearing  Malta.  On  the  night  before  they  expected  to 
reach  the  island  Mrs.  Graham  took  occasion  to  have  a  quiet 
chat  with  her  brother. 

"  Look  here,  Archie,  we  shall  all  be  going  ashore  to- 
morrow, I  suppose,"  said  she. 

"No  doubt." 

"And  I  dare  say,"  she  added,  fixing  her  clear,  pretty, 
shrewd  eyes  on  him,  "  that  you  will  be  going  away  to  the 
club  with  those  young  fellows,  and  we  shall  see  nothing  of 
70U." 

**  We  shall  be  all  over  the  place,  I  suppose,"  he  answered. 


§3  YOLA.VD!t. 

*  Most  likely  I  shall  lunch  at  the  club.  Graham  can  put 
me  down  ;  he  is  still  a  member,  isn't  lie  ?  " 

*'  It  would  be  a  good  deal  more  sensible  like,"  said  his 
sister,  *'  if  you  gave  us  lunch  at  a  hotel." 

"  I  ?  "  he  cried,  with  a  laugh.  "  I  like  that !  Consider- 
ing my  income  and  Inverstroy's  income,  a  proposal  of  that 
kind  strikes  one  with  a  sort  of  coolness — " 

"I  didn't  mean  Jim  and  me  only,'*  said  Mrs.  Graham, 
sharply.  "  Jim  can  pay  for  his  own  luncheon,  and  mine  too. 
Why  don't  you  ask  the  Winterbournes  ?  " 

This  was  a  new  notion  altogether. 

**  They  wouldn't  come,  would  they  ?  "  he  said,  diffident- 
ly. "  It  IS  not  a  very  long  acquaintance.  Still,  they  seem 
so  friendly,  and  I'd  like  it  awfully,  if  you  think  you  could 
get  Miss  Winterbourne  to  go  with  you.  Do  you  think  you 
could,  Polly?  Don't  you  see,  we  ought  to  pay  them  a  com- 
pliment— they've  taken  Allt-nam-Ba."  . 

"  Miss  "Winterbourne,"  said  Mrs.  Graham,  distantly,  "  is 
going  ashore  with  me  to  morrow.  Of  course  we  must  have 
lunch  somewhere.  If  you  men  like  to  go  to  the  club,  very 
well  I  suppose  we  shall  manage." 

Well  perhaps  it  was  only  a  natural  thing  to  suggest. 
The  Winterbournes  had  been  kind  to  him.  Moreover,  wo- 
men do  not  like  to  be  left  to  walk  up  and  down  the  Strada 
Reale  by  themselves  when  they  know  that  their  hus- 
bands and  brothers  are  enjoying  themselves  in  the  Union 
Club.  But  it  is  probable  that  neither  Mrs.  Graham  nor 
the  young  Master  of  Lynn  quite  fully  recollected  that  at- 
tentions and  civilities  which  are  simple  and  customary  on 
board  ship — which  are  a  necessity  of  the  case  (people  con- 
senting to  become  intimate  and  familiar  through  being  con- 
stantly thrown  together) — ^may,  on  land,  where  one  returns 
to  the  conventionalities  of  existence,  suddenly  assume  a 
very  different  complexion,  and  may  even  appear  to  have  a 
•tartling  significance. 


yuLande.  5S 


CHAPTER    VII. 

A.    DAY    ASHORE. 

Most  "  landward  "  people,  to  use  the  Scotch  phrase, 
would  imagine  that  on  board  ship  ladies  would  be  content 
with  any  rough-and-tumble  costume  that  would  serve  all 
purposes  from  morning  till  night.  But  on  a  long  voyage 
the  very  reverse  is  the  case.  Nowhere  else  do  women  dress 
with  more  elaborate  nicety,  and  with  such  studied  exhibi- 
tion of  variety  as  their  tolerably  capacious  wardrobes  per- 
mit. For  one  thing,  they  have  no  more  engrossing  occupa- 
tion. They  can  spend  hours  in  their  cabin  devising  new 
combinations ;  and  as  many  of  them  are  going  to  live  abroad, 
they  have  with  them  all  their  worldly  gear  from  which  to 
pick  and  choose.  It  is  a  break  in  the  monotony  of  the  day 
to  have  one  dress  at  breakfast,  another  for  forenoon  games 
and  lunch,  another  for  the  afternoon  promenade,  another 
for  the  meal  of  state  in  the  evening.  Then  nowhere  else 
are  well-made  costumes  seen  to  such  advantage ;  the  deck 
is  a  wide  stage,  and  there  is  the  best  of  light  for  colors. 
Moreover,  in  a  woman's  eyes  it  is  worth  while  to  take 
trouble  about  dressing  well  on  board  ship  ;  for  it  is  no  fleet- 
ing glance  that  rewards  her  pains.  The  mere  change  of  a 
brooch  at  the  neck  is  noticed. 

But  all  the  innocent  little  displays  that  had  been  made 
during  the  long  voyage  were  as  nothing  on  board  this  ship 
to  the  grand  transformation  that  took  place  in  view  of  the 
landing  at  Malta.  The  great  vessel  was  now  lying  silent 
and  still,  her  screw  no  longer  throbbing,  and  instead  of  the 
wide,  monotonous  circle  of  water  around  her,  here  were 
blue  arras  of  the  sea  running  into  the  gray-green  island  ; 
and  great  yellow  bastions  along  the  shore  ;  and  over  these 
again  a  pale  white  and  pink  town  straggling  along  the  low- 
lying  hills.  After  breakfast  the  men-folk  were  left  in  un- 
disturbed possession  of  the  deck.  They  were  not  anxious 
about  their  costume — at  least  the  middle-aged  ones  were 
not.  They  smoked  their  cigars,  and  leaned  over  the  rail, 
and  watched  the  swai-m  of  gayly  painted  boats  that  were 
liting  to  take  them  ashore.     And  perhaps  some  of  them 


54  YOLANDR. 

were  beginning  to  wish  the  that  women  would  look  alive  ; 
for  already  the  huge  barges  filled  with  coal  were  drawing 
near,  and  soon  the  vess'4  would  be  enveloped  in  clouds  of 
dust. 

Then  the  women  began  to  come  up,  one  by  one ;  but  all 
transformed!  They  were  scarcely  recognizable  by  mere 
acquaintances.  There  was  about  them  the  look  of  a  Sunday 
afternoon  in  Kensington  Gardens ;  and  it  was  strange 
enough  on  the  deck  of  a  ship.  People  who  had  been  on 
sufficiently  friendly  terms  now  grew  a  little  more  reserved ; 
these  land  costumes  reminded  them  that  on  shore  they 
might  have  less  claim  to  a  free  and  easy  companionship. 
And  Mr.  Wihterbourne  grew  anxious.  Did  Yolande  know  ? 
The  maid  she  had  brought  with  her,  and  whose  services  she 
had  agreed  to  share  with  Mrs.  Graham,  had  been  useless 
enough  from  the  moment  she  put  foot  on  board  the  ship ; 
but  surely  she  must  have  learned  what  was  going  forward  ? 
Perhaps  Yolande  would  appear  in  her  ordinary  pale  pink 
morning  dress?  She  was  far  too  content  with  simplicity 
in  costume.     Again  and  again  he  bad  had  to  rebuke  her. 

'*  Why  don't  you  have  more  dresses  ?  "  he  had  said  to 
her  on  board  this  very  ship.  "  Look  at  Mrs.  Graham.  Why 
don't  you  have  as  many  dresses  as  Mrs.  Graham  ?  A  mar- 
ried lady  ?  What  difference  does  that  make  ?  I  like  to 
see  you  prettily  dressed.  When  I  want  you  to  save  money, 
I  will  tell  you.  You  can't  get  them  at  sea  ?  Well,  of  course 
net ;  but  you  might  have  got  them  on  shore.  And  if  it 
meant  more  trunks,  what  is  the  use  of  Jane  ?  " 

He  was  a  nervous  and  fidgety  man,  and  he  was  beginning 
to  be  really  concerned  about  Yolande's  appearance,  when 
he  caught  a  glimpse  of  Yolande  herself  coming  out  on  to 
the  deck  from  the  companion  way.  He  was  instantly  satisfied. 
There  was  nothing  striking  about  her  dress,  it  is  true — the 
skirt  and  sleeves  were  of  dark  blue  velvet,  the  rest  of  dark 
blue  linen,  and  she  wore  her  white  silver  belt — but  at  all 
events  it  was  different ;  and  then  the  flat  dark  blue  Scotch 
cap  looked  pretty  enough  on  her  ruddy  golden  hair.  In- 
deed, he  need  not  have  been  afraid  that  Yolande  would 
have  appeared  insignificant  anyhow  or  anywhere.  Her  tall 
stature;  her  slender  and  graceful  figure;  her  air  and  carri- 
age— all  these  rendered  her  quite  sulficiently  distinguished- 
looking,  even  when  one  was  not  near  enough  to  know  any- 
thing of  the  fascination  of  her  eyes  and  the  pretty  pathetic 
mouth. 


YOLANDE.  55 

And  yet  lie  was  so  anxious  that  she  should  acquit  her* 
self  well — he  was  so  proud  of  her — that  he  went  to  her 
quickly  and  said, — 

"  That  is  one  of  the  prettiest  of  your  dresses,  Yolande — 
very  pretty — and  it  suits  your  silver  girdle  very  well ;  but 
the  Scotch  cap — well,  that  suits  you  too,  you  know — " 

"  It  is  Mrs.  Graham's,  papa.  She  asked  me  to  wear  it 
— in  honor  of  AUt-nam-Ba." 

"  Yes,  yes,"  he  said.  "  That  is  all  very  well — at  Allt- 
nam-Ba.  It  is  very  pretty — and  Jane  has  done  your  hair 
very  nicely  this  morning — " 

"  I  have  not  had  a  glimpse  of  Jane  this  morning,"  Yo- 
lande said  with  a  laugh.  "  Could  I  be  so  cruel  ?  No.  Mrs. 
Graham  going  ashore,  and  I  to  take  Jane  away — how  could 

"  I  don't  like  the  arrangement,"  her  father  said,  with  a 
frown.  "  "Why  should  you  not  have  the  help  of  your  own 
maid  ?  But  about  the  cap,  Yolande — look,  these  other 
ladies  are  dressed  a^  if  they  were  going  to  church.  The  cap 
would  be  very  pretty  at  a  garden  party — at  lawn  tennis — 
but  I  think — " 

"  Oh,  yes  I  will  put  on  a  bonnet,"  said  Yolande,  instant- 
ly. "  It  is  not  to  please  Mrs.  Graham,  it  is  to  please  you, 
that  I  care  for.     One  minute — " 

But  who  was  this  who  intercepted  her  ?  Not  the  lazy  young 
fellow  who  used  to  lounge  about  the  decks  in  a  shooting  coat, 
with  a  cigarette  scarcely  ever  absent  from  his  finger  or  lips ; 
but  a  most  elegant  young  gentleman  in  tall  hat  and  frock- 
coat,  who  was  dresssed  with  the  most  remarkable  precision, 
from  his  collar  and  stiff  necktie  to  his  snow-white  gaiters 
and  patent  leather  boots 

"Are  you  ready  to  go  ashore.  Miss  Winterbourne  ?  " 
said  he,  smoothing  his  gloves  the  while.  "  My  sister  is  just 
coming  up." 

"  In  one  minute,"  said  she :  "  I  am  going  for  a  bonnet 
instead  of  my  Scotch  cap — " 

"  Oh,  no,"  he  said,  quickly  ;  '*  please  don't.  Please  wear 
the  caj).  You  have  no  idea  how  well  it  becomes  you.  And 
it  would  be  so  kind  of  you  to  pay  a  compliment  to  the 
Highlands — I  think  half  the  officers  on  board  belong  to  the 
Seaforth  Highlandei's — and  if  we  go  to  look  at  the  club — '* 

"  No,  thank  you,"  she  said,  passing  him  with  a  friendly 
smile.  "  I  am  not  going  en  vivandiere.  Perhaps  I  will 
borrow  the  cap  some  other  time — at  AUt-nam-Ba." 


66  YOLANDE. 

Mr.  Winterbourne  overheard  this  little  conversation — in 
fact,  the  three  of  them  M-ere  ahnost  standing  together ;  and 
whether  it  was  that  the  general  excitement  throughout  the 
vessel  had  also  affected  him,  or  whether  it  was  that  the  mer« 
siglit  of  all  these  people  in  different  costumes  had  made  him 
suddenly  conscious  of  what  were  their  real  relations,  not 
their  ship  relations — it  certainly  startled  him  to  hear  the 
young  Master  of  Lynn,  apparently  on  the  same  familiar  foot- 
ing as  himself,  advise  Yolande  as  to  what  became  her.  The 
next  step  was  inevitable.  He  was  easily  alarmed.  He  re- 
called his  friend  Short! ands's  remark — which  he  had  rather 
resented  at  the  time — that  a  P.  and  O.  voyage  would  marry 
off  anybody  who  wanted  to  get  married.  He  thought  of  Yo- 
lande ;  and  he  was  stricken  dumb  with  a  nameless  fear.  Was 
she  going  away  from  him  ?  Was  some  one  else  about  to 
supplant  him  in  her  affections  ?  These  two  had  been  in  a 
very  literal  sense  all  the  world  to  each  other.  They  had 
been  constant  companions.  They  knew  few  people  ;  for  he 
lived  in  a  lonely,  nomadic  kind  of  way ;  and  Yolande  never 
seemed  to  care  for  any  society  but  his  own.  And  now  was 
she  going  away  from  him  ?  " 

Then  it  suddenly  occurred  to  him  that  he  had  just  ar- 
ranged to  take  her  away  into  those  wild  solitudes  in  the 
Highlands,  where  the  Leslies  would  be  their  only  neighbors. 
It  seemed  more  and  more  inevitable.  But  why  not  ?  Why 
should  not  this  happen  ?  He  nerved  himself  to  face  the 
worst.  Yolande  must  marry  some  day.  He  had  declared 
to  John  Shortlands  that  he  almost  wished  she  would  marry 
now.  And  how  could  she  marry  better  ?  This  young  fel- 
low was  of  good  birth  and  education  ;  well  mannered  and 
modest :  altogether  unexceptionable,  as  far  as  one  could 
judge.  And  Mr.  Winterbourne  had  been  judging,  uncon- 
sciously to  himself.  He  had  observed  in  the  smoking-room 
and  elsewhere  that  young  Leslie  was  inclined  to  be 
caiitious  about  the  expenditure  of  money — at  cards  or  other- 
wise ;  but  was  not  that  rather  a  good  trait  ?  The  family 
was  not  wealthy  ;  the  present  Lord  Lynn  had  been  engaged 
all  Ins  life  in  slowly  paying  off  the  mortgages  on  the  fanaily 
estates;  and  no  doubt  this  young  fellow  had  been  economi- 
cally brought  up.  And  then  again — if  Yolando^  were  to 
marry  at  all — would  it  not  be  better  that  she  should  be  trans- 
ferred to  that  distant  and  safe  solitude  ?  Yolande  as  the 
mistress  of  Lynn  Towers,  far  away  there  in  the  seclusion  of 
the  hills,  living  a  Imppy  and  peaceful  life,  free  from  scath  and 


YOLANDE.  57 

terror;  that  was  a  fancy  that  pleased  him.  It  seemed  no* 
so  terrible  now  that  Yolande  should  marry — at  least — at 
least  he  would  face  the  worst,  and  strive  to  look  at  the 
pleasanter  aspect  of  it.     She  would  be  far  away  and  safe. 

These  anxious,  rapid  struG^gling  thoughts  had  not  oc- 
cupied a  couple  of  minutes.  Yolande  appeared,  and  he  was 
almost  afraid  to  regard  her.  Might  there  not  be  something 
of  the  future  written  in  her  face  ?  Indeed,  there  was  noth- 
ing there  but  a  pleasant  interest  about  the  going  on  shore  : 
and  when  she  accepted  a  little  nosegay  that  the  Master  of 
Lynn  brought  her,  and  pinned  it  on  her  dress,  it  was  with  a 
smile  of  thanks,  but  with — to  any  unconcerned  eye — the 
very  frankest  indifference. 

The  Grahams  now  announced  themselves  as  ready ;  and 
the  party  descended  the  gangway  into  the  boat — young 
Leslie  preceding  them  so  as  to  hand  Yolande  into  her  place. 

"  Mr.  Winterbourne,"said  he,  when  they  were  all  seated 
under  the  awning,  and  sailing  away  through  the  lapping 
green  water,  "  I  hope  you  and  your  daughter  will  come  and 
lunch  with  us — " 

"  Oh,  yes  of  course,"  said  he  :  did  they  not  make  one 
party  ? 

"  But  what  I  mean  is  this,"  said  the  Master  of  Lynn  ;  "  I 
am  giving  those  Graham  people  their  lunch — the  cormor- 
ants ! — and  Lynn  Towers  is  a  long  way  off ;  and  I  haven't 
often  the  chance  of  playing  host ;  and  so  I  want  you  and 
Miss  Winterbourne  also  to  be  my  guests  at  the Hotel." 

"  Oh,  thanks ;  very  well,"  said  Yolande's  father  who 
had  begun  now  to  study  this  young  man  with  the  most 
observant  but  cautious  scrutiny,  and  was  in  a  strange  kind 
of  way  anxious  to  be  pleased  with  him. 

"  Why,  I  thought  you  were  going  to  the  club  they  were 
all  speaking  of,"  said  Yolande,  staring  at  him.  "  Captain 
Douglass  told  me  so." 

"  Captain  Douglass  thinks  he  knows  everything,"  said 
young  Leslie,  good-naturedly;  "  whereas  he  knows  nothing 
except  how  to  play  sixpenny  loo." 

"  But  we  will  all  go  to  the  club,  Miss  Yolande,"  said 
Colonel  Graham,  "  and  you  shall  see  the  ballroom.  Very 
fine.  I,  don't  know  what  the  high-art  fellows  nowadays 
would  think  of  it.  I  used  to  think  it  uncommonly  fine 
m  by-gone  times.     Gad,  I'm  not  so  fond  of  dancing  now." 

"You  can  dance  as  well  as  ever  you  did,  Jim,  only 
you're  so  lazy,"  his  wife  said,  sharply. 


58  YOLANDE. 

**  You'll  have  to  give  them  a  torchlight  dance,  Archie; 
the  colonel  continued,  "  tlie  first  stag  Mr.  Winterbourne 
kills.    Miss  Yolande  would  like  to  look  at  that.    And  you're 
pretty  good  yourself  at  the  sword  dance.      I  once  could  do 
it,  in  a  way — " 

"  Jim,  I  won't  have  you  talk  as  if  you  were  an  old  man," 
his  wife  said,  angrily.  *"  I  don't  care  about  you  ;  I  care 
about  uiyself.  I  won't  have  you  talk  like  that.  Everybody 
on  board  thinks  I'm  forty." 

*'  You  are  not  so  young  as  you  once  were,  you  know, 
Polly." 

But  Mrs.  Graham  was  much  too  radiant  a  coquette  to 
be  put  out  by  any  impertinent  speech  like  that.  She  was 
too  sure  of  herself.  She  knew  what  her  glass  told  her — 
and  the  half-concealed  admiration  of  a  whole  shipful  of 
people.  She  could  afford  to  treat  such  speeches  with  con- 
tempt.    And  so  they  reached  the  shore. 

They  refused  to  have  a  carriage ;  preferring  rather  to 
climb  away  up  the  steep  steps,  and  away  up  the  steep  little 
streets,  until  they  reached  those  high  and  narrow  thorougli- 
fares  (with  their  pink  and  yellow  houses  and  pretty  balconies, 
and  green  casements)  that  were  so  cool  and  pleasant  to 
wander  through.  Sometimes  the  sun,  though  shut  out, 
sent  a  reflected  light  down  into  these  streets  in  so  peculiar 
a  fashion  that  the  pink  fronts  of  the  houses  looked  quite 
ti-ansparent,  and  not  unfrequently,  at  the  far  end  of  the 
thoroughfare,  the  vista  w^as  closed  in  by  a  narrow  band  of 
tlie  deepest  and  intensest  blue — the  high  horizon-line  of  the 
dislniit  sea.  They  went  up  to  St.  John's  Bastion  to  look 
at  tlic  wilderness  of  geraniums  and  lotus-trees.  They  went 
to  St.  John's  Church.  They  went  to  the  telegraph  office, 
where  tlie  Master  of  Lynn  sent  off  this  message  : — 

Archibald  Leslie^ Hold  Malta. 

Ronald  MacPherson^  High  Street,  Inverness. 
Consider  Allt-nam-Ba^  if  unlets  taken  by  Winterbourne^ 
M.  F.    Slagpool^  Seven  hundred  fifty.     Reply. 

They  went  to  see  the  Governor's  Garden,  and,  in  short, 
all  the  sights  of  the  place  ;  but  what  charmed  the  women- 
folks most  of  all  was,  naturally,  the  great  ballroom  at  the 
TTnion  Club.  As  tliey  stood  in  the  big,  empty,  hollow- 
resounding  place,  Yolande  said  : — 

'Oil  yes,  it  is  beautiful.      It  must  be  cool,  with  such  a 


YOLANDE.  %% 

high  roof.  Papa,  have  they  as  fine  a  ballroom  at  the  Re- 
form Club?" 

"  The  Reform  Club  ?  "  her  father  repeated — rather 
vexed  tliat  she  should  make  such  a  blunder.  "Of  course 
not.     Who  ever  heard  of  such  a  thing !  " 

"  Why  not  ?  "  she  said.  "  Every  one  says  this  is  a  good 
club — and  very  English.  Why  not  at  the  Reform  Club? 
Is  that  why  you  have  never  taken  me  there  ?  " 

"  Well,  it  is — it  is  devilish  English  looking,"  said 
Colonel  Graham  to  his  wife  as  they  turned  into  the  long 
and  cool  coffee-room,  where  there  were  rows  of  small  tables, 
all  nicely  furnished  out.  "  I  like  it.  It  reminds  me  of  old 
times.  I  like  to  see  the  fellows  in  the  old  uniforms  ;  it 
makes  one's  heart  warm.  Hanged  if  I  don't  have  a  glass 
of  sherry  and  bitters,  just  to  see  if  it  tastes  like  the  real 
thing — or  a  brandy  and  soda.  It's  devilish  like  home.  I 
don't  like  l)eing  waited  on  by  these  Lascar-Portuguese-half- 
nigger  fellows.  My  chap  said  to  me  yesterday  at  break- 
fast, when  I  asked  for  poached  eggs,  *  No  go  yet — when  go 
bell  me  bring.'  And  another  fellow,  when  I  asked  for  my 
bath,  said,  '  Hot  water  no  go — when  go  hot  water,  me  tell.* 
By  Gad  !  there's  old  Monroe — the  fellow  that  nailed  the 
Sepoys  at  Azimghur — he's  got  as  fat  as  a  turkey-cock — " 

Indeed,  the  members  of  the  club — mostly  officers 
apparently — were  now  coming  in  to  lunch ;  and  soon 
Colonel  Graham  was  fairly  mobbed  by  old  friends  and 
acquaintances,  insomuch  that  it  was  with  difficulty  he  was 
drawn  away  to  the  banquet  that  young  Leslie — taking 
advantage  of  the  stay  of  the  party  in  St.  John's  Cliurch — • 
had  had  prepared  for  them  at  the  hotel.  It  was  a  modest 
feast,  but  merry  enough ;  and  the  table  was  liberally 
adorned  with  flowers,  of  which  there  is  no  lack  in  Malta. 
Colonel  Graham  was  much  excited  with  meeting  these  old 
friends,  and  had  a  great  deal  to  say  about  them ;  his  wife 
was  glad  to  have  a  rest  after  so  much  walking.  Yolande 
w^as  naturally  interested  in  the  foreign  look  of  the  place 
and  the  people  ;  and  young  Leslie,  delighted  to  have  the 
honor  of  being  host,  played  that  part  with  much  tact  and 
modesty  and  skill. 

To  Mr.  Winterbourne  it  was  strange.  Yolande  seemed 
to  half  belong  to  these  people  already  Mrs.  Graham 
ap])eared  to  claim  her  as  a  sister.  On  board  shi])  these 
things  were  not  so  noticeable  ;  for  of  course  they  met  at 
meals  ;  and  the  same  groups  that  were  formed  at  table  had 


%0  YOLANDE. 

a  tendency  t,o  draw  together  again  on  deck  or  in  the  saloon. 
But  here  was  this  small  party  cut  off  from  all  the  rest  of  the 
passengers,  and  they  were  entirely  on  the  footing  of  old 
friends,  and  the  Master  of  Lynn's  anxiety  to  please  Yolande 
was  most  marked  and  distinct.  On  board  ship  it  would 
scarcely  have  been  noticed';  here  it  was  obvious  to  the 
most  careless  eye.  And  yet,  when  he  turned  to  Yolande 
herself,  who,  as  might  have  been  imagined,  ought  to  have 
been  conscious  that  she  was  being  singled  out  for  a  very  spe- 
cial attention  and  courtesey,he  could  read  no  such  conscious- 
ness in  her  face — nothing  but  a  certain  pleasant  friendliness 
and  indifference." 

After  luncheon  they  went  away  for  a  long  drive  to  see 
more  sights,  and  in  the  afternoon  returned  to  the  hotel,  be- 
fore going  on  board.  Young  Leslie  was  thinking  of  leaving 
instructions  that  the  telegi-am  from  Inverness  should  be  for- 
warded on  to  Cairo,  when,  fortunately,  it  arrived.  It  read 
curiously : — 

Ronald  MacPherson^ 
Estate  and  Colliery  Agent^ 
High  iStreet,  Inverness. 

The  Honorable  the  Master  ofZynn^ 

of  the  P,  and  0.  Compam/s  Steam-ship ^ 

Tli^ Hotel,  Malta. 

Might, 

"  Now  what  on  earth —  Oh,  I  see !  "  exclaimed  the  re- 
cipient  of  this  telegram,  after  starting  at  it  in  a  bewildered 
fashion  for  a  moment.  "  I  see.  Here  is  a  most  beautiful 
joke.  MacPherson  has  wanted  to  be  clever — has  found  out 
tliat  telegraphing  to  Malta  is  pi-etty  dear ;  thinks  he  will 
make  the  message  as  short  as  possible,  but  will  take  it  out  in 
tlie  address.  I  am  certain  that  is  it.  He  has  fancied  the  ad- 
dress was  free,  as  in  England  ;  and  he  has  sent  his  clerk  to 
the  office.  Won't  the  clerk  catch  it  when  he  goes  back  and 
says  what  he  has  paid !  That  is  real  Highland  shrewdness. 
Never  mind  ;  you  have  got  the  shooting,  Sir.  Winterbourne. 

"I  am  glad  of  that."  said  Yolande's  father,  rather 
absently;  for  now,  when  he  thought  of  the  solitudes  of  Allt- 
nam-ba,  it  was  ^  not  of  stags,  or  grouse,  or  mountain  hares, 
that  he  was  thinking. 

They  got  on  board  again,  and  almost  immediately  went 
below  to   prepare  for  dinner,  for  the  decks  were  still  dirtv 


J 


YOLANDS.  61 

with  the  coal  dust.  And  tha.  night  they  were  again  at  sea 
— far  away  in  the  silences ;  and  a  small  group  of  them  were 
up  at  tlie  end  of  the  saloon,  practising  glees  for  the  next 
grand  concert.  Mr.  Winterbourne  was  on  deck,  walking  up 
and  down,  alone;  and  perhaps  trying  to  fancy  how  it  would 
be  with  him  when  he  was  really  left  alone,  and  Yolande  en- 
tirely away  from  him,  with  other  cares  and  occupations. 
And  he  was  striving  to  convince  himself  that  that  would  be 
best ;  that  he  would  himself  feel  happier  if  Yolande's  future 
in  life  were  secured  ;  if  he  could  see  her  the  contented  and 
proud  mistress  of  Lynn  Towers.  Here  on  board  this  ship, 
it  might  seem  a  hard  thing  that  they  should  separate,  even 
though  the  separation  were  only  a  mitigated  one ;  but  if  they 
were  back  in  England  again,  he  knew  those  terrible  fears 
would  again  beset  him,  and  that  it  would  be  the  first  wish 
of  his  heart  that  Yolande  should  get  married.  At  Lynn 
Towers  he  might  see  her  sometimes.  It  was  remote,  and 
quiet,  and  safe  ;  sometimes  Yolande  and  he  would  walk  to- 
gether there. 

Meanwhile  down  below  they  had  finished  their  practic- 
ing ;  and  the  Master  of  Lynn  was  idly  turning  over  a  book 
of  glees. 

"  Polly,"  said  he  to  his  sister,  *'  I  like  that  one  as  well  as 
any — I  mean  the  words.  Don't  you  think  they  apply  very 
well  to  Miss  Winterbourne  ?" 

His  sister  took  the  book  and  read  Sheridan's  lines : 

"  Marked  you  her  eye  of  heavenly  blue  ? 
Marked  you  her  cheek  of  roseate  hue  ? 
That  eye  in  liquid  circles  moving  ; 
That  cheek  abashed  at  man's  approving 
The  one  love's  arrows  darting  round. 
The  other  blushing  at  the  wound. 

Well,  the  music  of  this  glee  is  charming,  and  the  words  are 
well  enough  ;  but  when  the  Master  of  Lynn  ventured  the 
opinion  that  these  were  a  good  description  of  Yolande,  lie 
never  made  a  worse  shot  in  his  life.  Yolande  "abashed  at 
man's  approving-'  ?  She  let  no  such  nonsense  get  into  her 
head.  She  was  a  little  too  proud  for  that — or  perhaps  only 
caFGleas  and  indifferent. 


62  YOLANDR. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

KECONNAISSANCBS. 

"  I  don't  believe  in  any  such  simplicity.    Men  may 
women  don't.     It  seems  to  me  more  the  simplicity  of  an 
accomplished  flirt." 

The  speaker  was  Mrs.  Graham,  and  she  spoke  with  an 
air  of  resentment. 

"  You  don't  know  her,"  said  the  Master  of  Lynn,  with 
involuntary  admiration. 

"I  suppose  you  think  you  do,"  his  sister  said,  with  a 
"  superior  "  smile.  And  then — perhaps  she  was  tired  of 
hearing  so  much  in  praise  of  Yolande,  or  perhaps  she  wished 
her  brother  to  be  cautious,  or  perhaps  she  was  merely  gra- 
tuitously malicious — she  said,  "  I'll  tell  you  what  it  is :  I 
should  not  be  at  all  surprised  to  hear  that  she  was  engaged, 
and  has  been  engaged  for  any  length  of  time." 

He  was  struck  silent  by  this  fierce  suggestion  ;  it  be- 
wildered him  for  a  second  or  two.      Then  he  exclaimed : — 

"Oh,  that  is  absurd — perfectly  absurd !  I  know  she  is 
not." 

"It  would  be  a  joke,"  continued  his  sister,  with  a  sar- 
donic smile,  "if  that  were  the  explanation  of  the  wonderful 
friendliness  that  puzzles  you  so  much.  If  she  is  engaged, 
of  course  she  has  no  further  care  or  embarrassment.  Every- 
thing is  settled.  She  is  as  frank  with  Dick  as  with  Tom 
and  Harry.  Oh,  Archie,  that  would  be  a  joke !  How  Jim 
would  laugh  at  you !  " 

"  But  it  isn't  true,"  he  said,  angrily,  "  and  you  know  it 
isn't.     It  is  quite  absurd." 

"  I  will  find  out  for  you  if  you  like,"  his  sister  said, 
calmly.  And  here  the  conversation  ceased,  for  Colonel 
Graham  at  this  moment  came  along  to  ask  his  brother-in- 
law  for  a  light. 

They  were  again  away  from  the  land,  perhaps  even  for- 
getful that  such  a  thing  existed.  It  seemed  quite  natural 
to  get  up  morning  after  morning  to  find  around  them  the 
same  bright,  brilliant  monotony  of  white-crested  blue  sea« 
ftnd  sunlit  decks  and  fair  skies ;  and  each  day  passed  with 


YOLANDE,  ^  63 

the  usual  amusements  ;  and  then  came  the  still  moonlight '  -/ 
night,  with  all  its  mysterious  charm  and  loiieiiiiesg,..  It  was  " 
a  delightful  life,  especially  for  the  Grahams  and  "Winter- 
bournes,  who  were  going  nowhere  in  particular,  but  had 
come  chiefly  for  the  voyage  itself.  And  it  was  a  life  the 
very  small  incidents  of  which  excited  interest,  simply  be- 
cause people  had  plenty  of  time  to  consider  them — and 
each  other. 

There  was  no  doubt  that  Yolande  had  become  a  pretty 
general  favorite ;  for  she  found  herself  very  much  at  home  ; 
and  she  put  aside  a  good  deal  of  that  reserve  which  she 
assumed  in  travelling  on  land.  These  people  could  in  no 
sense  be  considered  strangers ;  they  were  all  too  kind  to 
her.  The  ship's  oflicers  brought  her  the  charts  out  of  the 
chart-room,  to  show  her  how  far  the  vessel  had  got  on  her 
course.  The  captain  allowed  her  to  go  on  the  bridge,  and 
gave  her  his  own  glass  when  a  distant  sail  was  to  be  seen. 
And  the  young  soldiers,  when  they  were  not  in  the  smoking- 
room,  and  when  they  were  not  picking  up  rope  quoits  for 
Mrs.  Graham,  had  an  eye  on  the  many  strayed  birds  fluttei- 
ing  about,  and  when  they  could  they  caught  one  and  brought 
it  to  Miss  Winterbourne,  who  was  glad  to  take  the  wild-eyed 
fluttering  wanderer  down  into  the  saloon  and  put  its  beak 
for  a  second  or  two  into  a  glass  of  fresh  water.  The  swal- 
lows were  the  most  easily  caught ;  they  were  either  more 
exhausted  or  more  tame  than  the  quails  and  thrushes  and 
ringdoves.  Once  or  twice  Yolande  herself  caught  one  of 
these  swallows,  and  the  beautiful  bronze-blue  creature  seemed 
not  anxious  to  get  away  from  her  hand.  Mrs.  Graham  said 
it  was  too  ludicrous  to  see  the  major  of  a  Highland  regi- 
ment— a  man  six  feet  two  in  height,  with  a  portentously 
grave  face — screw  his  eyeglass  into  its  place,  and  set  off  to 
stalk  a  dead-tired  thrush,  pursuing  it  along  the  awning,  and 
from  boat  to  boat.  But  all  the  same  these  warriors  seemed 
pleased  enough  when  they  could  bring  to  Yolande  one  of 
these  trembling  captives,  and  when  she  took  the  poor  thing 
carefully  nito  her  hands,  and  looked  up,  and  said,  "  Oli, 
thank  you."  It  ought  to  be  mentioned  that  the  short  upper 
lip  of  the  girl,  though  it  had  the  pathetic  droop  at  the 
corners  which  has  been  mentioned — and  which  an  artist 
friend  of  the  writer  says  ought  to  have  been  described  as 
Cupid's  bow  being  drawn  slightly — lent  itself  very  readily 
to  a  smile. 

Mrs.  Graham  watched  for  a  chance  of  speaking  to 


64  VOL  AND E. 

Yolande,  and  soon  found  it.  She  went  to  the  girl,  who  was 
standing  by  the  rail  on  the  hurricane-deck,  and  put  her  arm 
most  affectionately  round  her,  and  said  : — 

"  My  dear  child  what  are  you  staring  into  the  sea  for  ? 
Do  you  expect  to  see  dolphins  ?  " 

"  I  was  wondering  what  made  the  water  so  blue,"  said 
she,  raising  herself  somewhat.  "  It  is  not  the  sky.  If  you 
look  at  the  water  for  awhile,  and  turn  to  the  sky,  the  sky 
is  a  pale  w^ashed-out  purple.  What  a  wonderful  blue  it  is, 
too  ;  it  seems  to  me  twenty  times  more  intense  than  the 
blue  of  the  w^ater  along  the  Riviera." 

"  You  have  been  along  the  Riviera  ?  " 

"  Oh,  two  or  three  times,"  said  Yolande.  "  "We  always 
go  that  way  into  Italy." 

"  You  must  have  travelled  a  great  deal,  from  what  I 
hear." 

"Yes,"  said  Yolande,  with  a  slight  sigh,  "  I  am  afraid  it 
is  a  great  misfortune.  It  is  papa's  kindness  to  me;  but  I 
am  sorry.  It  takes  him  away.  At  one  time  he  said  it  was 
my  education  ;  but  now  we  both  laugh  at  that — for  a  pre- 
tence. Oh,  I  assure  you  we  are  such  bad  travellers — we 
never  go  to  see  anything  that  we  ought  to  see.  When  we 
go  to  Venice  we  go  to  the  Lido  and  the  sands,  but  to  the 
churches? — no.  In  Egypt  you  will  have  to  do  all  the  sight- 
seeing; you  will  find  us,  oh,  so  very  lazy  that  you  cannot 
imagine  it ;  you  will  go  and  see  the  tombs  and  the  inscrip- 
tions, and  papa  and  I,  we  will  take  a  walk  and  look  at  the 
river  until  you  come  back." 

"  What  a  strange  life  to  have  led  !  "  said  her  friend,  who 
had  her  own  point  in  view.  "  And  among  all  your  wander- 
ings did  you  never  meet  the  one  who  is  to  be  nearer  and 
dearer?" 

"  Nearer  and  dearer  ?  "  said  Yolande,  looking  puzzled. 
Papa  is  nearer  and  dearer  to  me  than  any  one  or  anything 
— naturally.  That  is  why  we  are  always  satisfied  to  be  to- 
gether ;  that  is  what  makes  our  travelling  so  consoling — 
no — so — so  contented." 

"  But  what  I  mean  is — ^now  forgive  me,  dear  Yolande  ; 
you  know  I'm  a  very  impertinent  woman — I  mean,  in  all 
your  travels,  have  you  never  come  across  some  one  whom 
you  would  care  to  marry?  Indeed,  indeed,  you  must  have 
met  many  a  one  who  would  have  been  glad  to  carry  you 
off — that  I  can  tell  you  without  flattery." 

**  Indeed,  not  any  one,"  said  Yolande,  w^ith  a  perfectly 


YOLANDE.  65 

frank  laugh.  "  That  is  not  what  I  would  ever  think  of. 
That  is  not  what  I  wish."  And  then  she  added,  with  an 
air  of  sadness  :  "  Perhaps  I  am  never  to  have  what  I  wish 
— it  is  a  pity,  a  misfortune." 

"  What  is  it  then,  dear  Yolande  ?  In  your  father's  posi- 
tion I  don't  see  what  there  is  in  the  world  he  could  not  get 
for  you.  You  see  I  am  curious;  lam  very  impertinent; 
but  I  should  like  to  treat  you  as  my  own  sister ;  I  am  not 
quite  old  enough  to  act  as  a  mother  to  you,  for  all  that  Jim 
says." 

"  Oh,  it  is  simple  enough  ;  it  does  not  sound  difficult," 
Yolande  said.  "  Come,  we  will  sit  down,  and  I  will  tell 
you." 

They  sat  down  on  two  deck-chairs  that  happened  to  be 
handy,  and  Mrs  Graham  took  the  girl's  hand  in  hers,  because 
she  really  liked  her,  although  at  times  human  nature  broke 
down,  and  she  thought  her  husband  was  carrying  his  praises 
of  Yolande  just  a  trifle  too  far. 

"  When  I  have  met  English  ladies  abroad,"  said  Yolande, 
"  and  the  one  or  two  families  I  knew  in  London,  it  was  so 
nice  to  hear  them  talk  of  their  homes— perhaps  in  the 
country,  where  every  one  seemed  to  know  them,  and  they 
had  so  many  interests,  so  many  affections.  They  were  • 
proud  of  that.  It  was  a  tie.  They  were  not  merely  wan 
derers.  Even  your  brother,  dear  Mrs.  Graham,  he  has  filled 
me  with  envy  of  him  when  he  has  told  me  of  the  district 
around  Lynn  Towers,  and  seeming  to  know  every  one,  and 
always  settled  there,  and  capable  to  make  friends  for  a  life- 
time, not  for  a  few  hours  in  a  hotel.  What  place  do  I  real- 
ly know  in  the  world  ;  what  place  do  they  really  know  me  ? 
A  little  village  in  France  that  you  never  heard  of.  And  I 
am  English.  I  am  not  French.  Ah,  yes,  that  is  wh:it  I 
have  many  a  time  wished — that  my  papa  would  have  a 
house  like  others — in  the  country? — yes — or  in  the  town? 
— yes — what  does  that  matter  to  me  ?  And  I  should  make 
it  pretty  for  him,  and  he  would  have  a  home — not  a  hotel ; 
also  I  have  thought  of  being  a  secretary  to  him,  but  perhaps 
that  is  too  much  beyond  what  is  possible.  Do  you  think  I 
can  imagine  anything  about  marrying  when  this  far  more 
serious  thing  is  what  I  wish  ?  Do  you  think  that  any  one 
can  be  nearer  and  dearer  to  me  than  the  one  who  has  given 
me  all  his  affection,  all  his  life,  who  thinks  only  of  me,  who 
has  sacrificed  already  far  too  much  for  me  ?  Who  else  has 
done  that  for  me  ?    And  vou  would  not  have  me  ungrrateful  ? 


66  OLANDE. 

Besides,  also,  it  is  selfish.  I  do  not  like  the  society  of  any 
one  nearly  so  much  ;  why  should  I  change  for  a  stranger? 
But  it  is  not  necessary  to  speak  of  that ;  it  is  a  stupidity. 
But  now  I  have  told  you  what  I  wish  for,  if  it  were  pos- 
eible." 

Mrs.  Graham  was  convinced.  There  was  no  affectation 
here.     The  Master  of  Lynn  had  no  rival,  at  all  events. 

"  Do  you  know,  my  dear  child,  you  talk  very  sensibly,'* 
said  she,  patting  her  hand.  *'  And  I  don't  see  why  your 
papa  should  not  give  you  two  homes — one  in  the  country 
and  one  in  town — for  I  am  sure  every  one  says  he  is  wealthy 
enough.  But  perhaps  this  is  the  reason.  Of  course  you 
will  marry — no,  stay  a  minute — I  tell  you,  you  are  sure  to 
marry.  Why,  the  idea  !  Well,  then,  in  that  case,  it  might 
be  better  for  your  papa  not  to  have  a  household  to  break 
up;  he  could  attend  to  his  Parliamentary  duties  very  well 
if  he  lived  in  the  Westminster  Palace  Hotel,  for  example, 
and  be  free  from  care — " 

Yolande's  mouth  went  very  far  down  this  time. 

*' Yes,  that  may  be  it,"  she  said.  "Perhaps  that  will 
happen.  I  know  I  have  taken  away  too  much  of  his  time, 
and  once,  twice  perhaps,  we  have  had  jokes  about  my  be- 
ing married  ;  but  this  was  the  end,  that  when  my  papa  tells 
me  to  marry,  then  I  will  marry.  I  must  go  somewhere. 
If  I  am  too  much  of  a  burden — and  sometimes  I  am  very 
sad,  and  think  that  I  am — then  he  must  go  and  bring  some 
one  to  me,  and  say,  *  Marry  him.'  And  I  will  marry  him 
— and  hate  him, ^^ 

"Gracious  heavens,  child,  what  are  you  saying!  Of 
course,  if  ever  you  should  many,  you  will  choose  for  your- 
self." 

"  It  is  not  my  affair,"  said  Yolande,  coldly.  ''  If  I  am  to 
go  away,  I  will  go  away;  but  I  shall  hate  the  one  that 
takes  me  away." 

"  Yolande,"  said  her  friend,  seriously,  "  you  are  making 
it  rather  hard  for  your  father.  Perhaps  I  have  no  right  to 
interfere  ;  but  you  have  no  mother  to  guide  you;  and  real- 
ly you  talk  such — such  absurdity — " 

"But  how  do  I  make  it  hard  for  my  papa?"  said 
Yolande,  quickly  looking  up  with  an  anxious  glance.  "  Am 
I  a  constraint  ?  Do  you  think  there  is  something  he  would 
do  ?     Am  I  in  his  way — a  burden  to  him  ?  " 

"No,  no,  no,"  said  the  other,  good-humoredly.  "Why 
should  you  think  any  such  thing?     I  was  only  referring  to 


YOLANDE.  67 

the  madness  of  your  own  fancy.  The  idea  that  your  father 
is  to  choose  a  husband  for  you — whom  you  will  hate !  Now 
suppose  that  you  are  a  burden — I  believe  I  informed  you 
that  I  was  a  very  impertinent  woman,  and  now  I  am  an 
intermeddler  as  well — suppose  that  your  father  would  like 
to  take  a  more  active  part  in  public  affairs,  and  that  he 
knows  you  are  opposed  to  the  very  notion  of  getting  mar- 
ried. He  is  in  a  painful  dilemma.  He  won't  tell  you  that 
you  are  rather  interfering  with  his  Parliamentary  work. 
And  most  assuredly  he  won't  recommend  you  to  marry 
any  one,  if  you  are  going  to  marry  with  a  deadly  grudge 
against  your  husband." 

Yolande  thought  over  this  for  some  minutes. 

"  I  sup])ose  it  is  true,"  she  said,  rather  sadly.  "  He 
would  not  tell  me.  He  has  said  I  kept  him  away  from  the 
House  of  Commons,  but  then  it  was  only  amusement  and 
joking.  And  I — I  also — have  many  a  time  been  fearing  it 
was  not  right  he  should  waste  so  much  care  on  me,  when 
no  one  else  does  that  with  their  daughters.  Why  does  he 
go  to  the  House  ?  Partly  because  it  is  his  duty  to  work  for 
the  country — to  see  that  it  is  well  governed — partly  to  make 
fame,  which  is  a  noble  ambition.  And  then  I  interfere.  He 
thinks  I  am  not  quite  well,  when  I  am  quite  well.  He  thinks 
I  am  dull,  when  I  am  not  dull — when  I  v/ould  rather  read  his 
speech  in  the  newspapers  than  go  anywhere.  But  always  the 
same — I  must  go  and  be  amused  ;  and  Parliament  and  every- 
thing is  left  behind.  It  was  not  so  bad  when  I  was  at  the 
Chateau  ;  then  I  was  learning;  but  even  then  he  was  always 
coming  to  seeme  and  to  take  me  away.  And  when  I  used  to 
say,  *  Papa,  why  don't  you  take  me  to  England  ?  I  am  English, 
I  want  to  see  my  own  country,  not  other  countries,' — it 
was  always  '  You  will-  see  enough  of  England  by  and  by. 
But  when  I  go  to  England,  look !  it  is  the  same — always 
away  again,  except  a  week  or  two,  perhaps,  at  Oatlands 
Park,  or  a  day  or  two  in  London  ;  and  I  have  not  once 
been  to  the  House  of  Commons,  where  every  one  goes,  and 
even  my  papa  is  vexed  that  I  do  not  know  they  have  not 
a  ballroom  at  the  Reform  Club  !  " 

"  Well,  dear  Yolande,  you  have  led  a  queer  sort  of  life ; 
but,  after  all,  was  not  your  father  wise?  He  could  not  have 
a  household  with  a  schoolgirl  to  look  after  it.  But  now  I 
can  see  that  all  this  will  be  changed,  and  you  will  have  no 
more  fears  that  you  are  a  restraint.  Of  course  you  will 
matry,   and  you    will   be   very  happy,  and  your  papa  will 


68  YOLANDE. 

have  your  home  to  go  to  at  the  Easter  holidays  :  and  you 
will  go  up  to  town  to  hear  liim  speak  in  the  House,  and  he 
will  have  a  fair  chance  in  politics.  So  that  is  all  arranged, 
and  you  are  not  to  have  any  wild  or  fierce  theories.  There 
goes  dressing-bell — come  along  !  " 

Day  after  day  passed  without  change.  The  young 
Master  of  Lynn  had  been  re-assured  by  his  sister ;  and  very 
diligently,  and  with  a  Jacob-like  modesty  and  patience,  he 
stroVe  to  win  Yolande's  regard;  but  a  thougii  slie  was  always 
most  friendly  towards  him,  and  pleased  to  chat  with  him, 
or  walk  the  hurricane  deck  with  him,  she  seemed  to  treat 
him  precisely  as  she  treated  any  of  the  others.  If  there  was 
one  whom  she  especially  favored,  it  was  Colonel  Graham, 
whose  curt,  sardonic  speeches  amused  her. 

At  last  they  arrived  at  Port  Said,  that  curious,  rectangu- 
lar-streeted,  shanty-built  place,  that  looks  like  Cheyenne 
painted  pink  and  white  ;  and  of  course  there  was  much 
wonder  and  interest  in  beholding  land  again,  and  green 
water,  and  the  swarming  boats  with  their  Greeks  and 
Maltese  and  negroes  and  Arabs,  all  in  their  various  cos- 
tumes. But  it  was  with  a  far  greater  interest  that  they  re- 
garded the  picture  around  them  when  the  vessel  had  started 
again,  and  was  slowly  and  silently  stealing  away  into  the 
wide  and  lonely  desert  land  by  means  of  this  water  highway. 
The  Suez  Canal  had  been  rather  a  commonplace  phrase  to 
Yolande,  mixed  up  with  monetary  affairs  mostly,  and  sug- 
gestive of  machinery.  But  all  this  was  strange  and  new, 
and  the  vessel  was  going  so  slowly  that  the  engines  were 
scarcely  heard  ;  she  seemed  to  glide  into  this  dreamworld 
of  silver  sky  and  far-reaching  wastes  of  yellow  sand.  It 
was  so  silent  and  so  wide  and  so  lonely^  For  the  most  part 
the  horizon-line  was  a  mirage,  and  they  watched  the  con- 
tinual undulation  of  the  silver  white  waves,  and  even  the 
strange  reflections  of  what  apeared  to  be  islands  ;  but  here 
there  was  not  even  a  palm  to  break  the  nonotony  of  the 
desert — only  the  little  tamarisk  bushes  dotting  the  sand. 
From  a  marsh  a  red-legged  flumingo  rose,  slowly  winging 
its  way  to  the  soulh.  Then  a  string  of  camels  came  along 
with  forward  stretching  heads  and  broad,  slow-pacing  feet, 
the  Bedouins  either  perched  on  the  backs  of  the  animals  or 
striding  through  the  sand  by  their  side,  their  faces  looking 
black  in  contrast  to  their  white  wide-flowing  garments. 
And  so  they  glided  through  the  silent  gray,  silver,  world. 

The  night  saw  another  scene.     They   were  anchored  in 


YOLAATDE,  69 

a  narrow  part  of  the  canal,  where  the  banks  were  high  and 
steep,  and  the  moonlight  was  surpassingly  vivid.  On  one 
of  these  banks — it  seemed  a  great  mountain  as  it  rose  to  the 
dark  blue  vault  where  the  stars  were — the  moonlight  threw 
the  shadow  of  the  rigging  of  the  ship  so  sharply  that  every 
spar  and  rope  was  traced  on  the  silver  clear  sand.  There 
was  an  almost  oppressive  silence  in  this  desert  solitude  ;  a 
dark  animal  that  came  along  through  the  tamarisk  bushes — 
some  said  it  was  a  jackal — disappeared  up  and  over  the 
sand  mountain  like  a  ghost.  And  in  the  midst  of  this  weird 
cold  moonlight  and  silence  these  people  began  to  get  up  a 
dance  after  dinner.  The  piano  was  brought  on  deck  from 
the  saloon.  The  women-folk  had  put  on  their  prettiest 
costumes.  There  had  been  perhaps  (so  it  was  said)  a  little 
begging  and  half-promising  going  on  beforehand.  The 
smoking-room  was  deserted.  From  the  supports  of  the 
awnings  a  number  of  large  lanterns  had  been  slung,  so  that 
when  the  ladies  began  to  appear,  and  when  the  first  notes 
of  the  music  were  heard,  the  scene  was  a  very  animated 
and  pretty  one,  but  so  strange  with  the  moonlit  desert 
around. 

The  Master  of  Lynn  had  got  hold  of  Yolande  ;  he  had 
been  watching  for  her  appearance. 

"  I  hope  you  will  give  me  a  dance,  Miss  Winterbourne," 
said  he. 

"  Oh  yes,  with  pleasure,"  said  she,  in  the  most  friendly 
way. 

"  There  are  no  programmes,  of  course,"  said  he.  "  And 
one  can't  make  engagements;  but  I  tliink  a  very  good  rule 
in  a  thing  like  this  is  that  one  should  dance  with  one's 
friends.  For  myself,  I  don't  care  to  dance  with  strangers. 
It  doesn't  interest  me.  I  think  when  people  form  a  party 
among  themselves  on  board  ship — well,  I  think  they  should 
keep  to  themselves." 

"  Oh,  but  that  is  very  selfish,  is  it  not  ?  "  Yolande  said. 
"  We  are  not  supposed  to  be  strangers  with  any  one  after 
being  on  board  ship  so  long  together." 

"Miss  Winterbourne,  may  I  have  the  pleasure  of  danc- 
ing this  waltz  with  you  ?  "  said  a  tall,  solemn  man  with  an 
eyeglass ;  and  the  next  moment  the  Master  of  Lynn  beheld 
Yolande  walking  toward  that  cleared  space  with  Major 
Mackinnon,  of  the  Seaforth  Highlanders  ;  and  as  to  what  he 
thought  of  the  Seaforth  Highlanders,  and  what  he  hoped 


70  YOLANDE, 

would  happen  to  them,  from  their  colonel  down  to  their 
pipe-major,  it  is  unnecessary  to  say  anything  here. 

But  Yolande  did  give  him  the  r^ext  dance,  which  molli- 
fied him  a  little — not  altogether,  however,  for  it  was  only 
a  square.  The  next  was  a  Highland  Schottische ;  and  by 
ill  luck  he  took  it  for  granted  that  Yolande,  having  been 
brought  up  in  France,  would  know  nothing  about  it ;  so 
ho  went  away  and  sought  out  his  sister.  Their  performanca 
WHS  the  feature  of  the  evening.  No  one  else  thought  of 
interfering.  And  it  was  very  cleverly  and  prettily  and 
Mi-tistically  done ;  i  ^omuch  that  a  round  of  applause 
gieeted  them  at  the  end,  even  from  the  young  Highland 
officers,  who  considered  that  young  Leslie  might  just  as 
well  have  sought  a  partner  elsewhere  instead  of  claiming 
liis  own  sister.  Immediately  after,  the  Master  of  Lynn  re- 
turned to  Yolande. 

"  Ah,  that  is  very  pretty,"  she  said.  "  No  wonder  they 
approved  you  and  clapped  their  hands.  It  is  the  most 
2)icturesque  of  all  the  dances,  especially  when  th6re  are 
only  two,  and  you  have  the  whole  deck  for  display.  In  a 
ballroom,  perhaps  no." 

"You  must  learn  it,  Miss  Winterbourne,  before  you 
come  North,"  said  he.     **  We  always  dance  it  in  the  North." 

*'  Oh,  but  1  know  it  very  well,"  said  Yolande  quietly. 

"You?"  said  he,  in  an  injured  way.  "  Why  didn't 
you  tell  me?  Do  you  think  I  wanted  to  dance  with  my 
sister,  and  leave  you  here  ?  " 

"But  Mrs.  Graham  and  you  danced  it  so  prettily — oh, 
so  very  well  indeed — " 

There  was  somebody  else  approaching  them  now — for  the 
lady  at  the  piano  had  that  instant  begun  another  waltz. 
This  was  Captain  Douglas  also  of  the  Seaforth  Highlanders. 

"  Miss  Winterbourne,  if  you  are  not  engaged  will  you 
give  me  this  waltz  ?  " 

Yolande  did  not  hesitate.  Why  should  she  ?  She  was 
not  engaged. 

"  Oh  yes,  thanks,"  said  she,  with  much  friendliness,  and 
she  rose  and  took  Captain  Douglas's  arm. 

But  Leslie  could  not  bear  this  perfidy,  as  he  judged  it. 
He  would  have  no  more  to  do  with  the  dance,  or  with  her. 
Without  a  word  to  any  one  he  went  away  to  the  smoking- 
room,  and  sat  down  there,  savage  and  alone.  He  lit  a 
cigar,  and  smoked  vehemently. 

*'  Polly  talks  about  men  being  bamboozled  by  women," 


YOLANDE.  71 

lie  was  thinking  bitterly.  "  She  knows  nothing  about  it. 
It  is  women  who  know  nothing  about  women  ;  they  hide 
themselves  from  each  other.  Bat  she  was  right  on  one 
point.  That  girl  is  the  most  infernal  flirt  that  ever  stepped 
the  earth." 

And  still,  far  away,  he  could  hear  the  sound  of  the 
music,  and  also  the  stranger  sound — like  a  whispering  of 
silken  wings— of  feet  on  the  deck.  He  was  angry  and  indig- 
nant. Yolande  could  not  be  blind  to  his  constant  devotion 
to  her,  and -yet  she  treated  him  exactly  as  if  he  were  a 
stranger — going  off  with  the  first-comer.  Simplicity!  His 
sister  was  ri'ght— it  was  the  simplicity  of  a  first  class  flirt. 

And  still  the  waltz  went  on  ;  and  he  heard  the  winnow- 
ing sound  of  the  dancers'  feet ;  and  his  thoughts  were 
bitter  enough.  He  was  only  flve-and-twenty  ;  at  that  age 
hopes  and  fears  and  disappointments  are  emphatic  and 
near ;  probably  it  never  occurred  to  him  to  turn  from  the 
vanities  of  the  hour,  and  from  the  petty  throbbing  anxie- 
ties and  commonplaces  of  everyday  life,  to  think  of  the 
awful  solitudes  all  around  him  there — the  voiceless,  world- 
old  desert  lying  so  dim  and  strange  under  the  moonlight 
and  the  stars,  its  vast  and  mysterious  heart  quite  pulseless 
and  calm. 


CHAPTER  IX. 

CLOUDS. 


Next  morning,  quite  unconscious  that  she  had  dealt  any 
deadly  injury  to  any  one,  Yolande  was  seated  all  by  herself 
on  the  hurricane-deck,  idly  and  carelessly  and  happily 
drinking  in  fresh  clear  air,  and  looking  away  over  the  wastes 
of  golden  sand  to  a  strip  of  intense  dark  blue  that  was  soon 
to  reveal  itself  as  the  waters  of  a  lake.  She  was  quite  alone 
The  second  officer  had  brought  her  one  of  the  ship's  glasses, 
and  had  then  (greatly  against  his  will)  gone  on  the  bridge 
again.  The  morning  was  fair  and  shining;  the  huge 
stieamer  was  going  placidly  and  noiselessly  through  the  still 
water  ;  if  Yolande  was  thinking  of  anything,  it  was  proba- 


7l>  YOLANDE. 

ably  that  she  had  never  seen  her  father  so  pleased  and  con- 
tented as  on  this  long  voyage  ;  and  perhaps  she  was  won- 
dering whether,  after,  all*  it  might  not  be  quite  as  well  that 
he  should  give  up  Parliament  altogether,  so  that  they  two 
might  wander  away  through  the  world,  secure  in  each 
other's  company. 

Nor  was  she  aware  that  at  this  precise  moment  her 
future  was  being  accurately  arranged  for  her  in  one  of  the 
cabins  below. 

"  I  confess  I  don't  see  where  there  can  be  the  least  ob- 
jection." Mrs.  Graham  was  saying  to  her  husband  (who 
was  still  lying  in  his  berth,  turning  over  the  pages  of  a 
novel),  as  she  fixed  a  smart  mob-cap  on  her  short  and  pretty 
curls.  "  I  have  looked  at  it  every  way.  Papa  may  make  a 
fuss  about  Mr.  Winterbourne's  politics,  but  there  are  sub- 
stantial reasons  why  he  should  say  as  little  as  possible. 
Just  think  how  he  has  worked  at  the  improving  of  the  estate 
— all  his  life — and  with  scarcely  any  money;  and  just 
fancy  Archie  coming  in  to  complete  the  tiling!  I  know 
what  I  would  do.  I  would  drain  and  plant  the  rushed 
slopes,  and  build  a  nice  lodge  there ;  and  then  I  would  take 
the  sheep  off  AUt-nam-Ba,  and  make  it  a  small  forest ;  and 
it  would  let  for  twice  as  much  again.  Oh  Jim,  just  fancy 
if  Archie  were  to  be  able  to  buy  back  Corrievreak !  " 

Her  husband  flung  the  book  aside,  and  put  his  hands 
under  his  head.     His  imagination  was  at  work. 

"  If  I  were  Archie,"  he  said,  with  his  eyes  fixed  on 
vacancy,  "  I  would  make  Corrievreak  the  sanctuary;  that's 
what  I  would  do.  Then  I  would  put  a  strip  of  sheep  up 
the  Glenbuie  side  to  fence  off  Sir  John ;  do  you  see  that, 
Polly  ?  And  then  I  would  take  the  sheep  off  Allt-nam-Ba, 
as  you  say,  only  I  would  add  on  All-nam-Ba  to  Lynn.  Do 
you  see  that?  What  made  your  grandfather  part  with 
Corrievreak  I  don't  know.  Fancy  having  the  sanctuary 
within  two  miles  of  a  steamboat  pier :  it's  a  standing  temp- 
tation to  all  the  poachers  in  the  country  !  Now  if  you  take  in 
Allt-nam-Ba,  and  make  Corrievreak  the  sanctuary,  and 
if  you'd  hold  your  hand  for  a  year  or  two  in  the  letting, 
you'd  soon  have  one  of  the  best  forests  in  Scotland.  But 
letting  is  the  mischief.  Those  fellows  from  the  south  shoot 
anything  on  four  legs  they  can  get  at.  Forty  years  ago  the 
finest  stags  in  Invernessshire  were  found  round  and  about 
Corrievreak ;  the  Fork  Augustus  lads  knew  that,  they  used 
to  say.     Oh,  I  quite  agi-ee  with  you.     I  think  it  would  be 


YOLANDE.  73 

an  uncommon  good  match.  And  then  Archie  would  have 
a  house  in  town,  I  suppose  ;  and  they  might  put  us  up  for 
a  week  or  two  in  the  season.  Tit  for  tat's  fair  play.  He 
has  the  run  of  Inverstroy  when  there  isn't  a  bit  of  rabbit- 
shooting  left  to  him  at  Lynn." 

"  Well,  but  there's  just  this,  you  know,  Jim,"  his  wife 
said,  with  an  odd  kind  of  smile.  "  We  know  very  little 
about  what  kind  of  girl  she  is,  and  Archie  knows  less  than 
we  do." 

"  Oh,  she's  well  enough,"  said  the  stout  soldier,  carelessly. 
That  was  a  subsidiary  point.  Wliat  his  mind  clearly 
grasped  was  the  importance  of  having  Corrievreak  made 
the  sanctuary  of  the  deer  forest. 

"  She  is  well  enough,  no  doubt,"  his  wife  said  ;  and  as 
she  had  finished  her  toilette  she  now  stood  and  regarded, 
him,  with  a  demure  kind  of  hesitation  in  her  face,  as  if  she 
were  afraid  to  confess  her  thoughts.  "  She  is  well  enough. 
She  has  good  manners.  She  is  distingushed-looking,  for  a 
girl  of  her  age  ;  and  you  know  all  the  money  in  Slagpool 
wouldn't  induce  papa  to  receive  a  dowdy  daughter-in-law. 
And  she  doesn't  flirt — unless — well,  it's  just  })ossible  she 
knows  that  that  indifference  of  hers  is  attractive  to  young 
men  ;  it  puts  them  on  their  mettle,  and  touches  their  van- 
ity. But  after  all,  Jim,  we  know  very  little  about  the  girl. 
VVe  don't  know  what  sort  of  a  wife  she  w^ould  make.  She 
has  come  through  nothing ;  less  than  most  girls ;  for  she 
might  as  well  have  been  in  a  convent  as  in  that  Chateau. 
And  of  course  she  can't  expect  life  always  to  be  as  pleasant 
for  her ;  and — and — she  has  come  through  no  crisis  to  show 
what  kind  of  stuff  she  is  made  of ;  and  Ave  might  all  be  mis- 
taken— " 

"  Oh,  I  see  what  you're  driving  at,'"  her  husband  said, 
with  just  a  touch  of  contempt,  "  Don't  be  alarmed  ;  I  dare 
say  Archie  isn't  anxious  to  marry  a  tragedy  queen.  1  don't 
see  why  Miss  Winterbourne  should  be  put  to  any  fiery  trial, 
or  should  have  to  go  through  mortal  agonies,  any  more  than 
the  majority  of  young  women  in  exceptionally  easy  circum- 
stances. And  if  she  sht)uld,  I  have  no  doubt  she  will  show 
common-sense,  and  men  prefer  common-sense  to  hysterics 
— a  long  way.  I  think  she  has  common-sense  ;  and  I  don't 
see  why  she  and  Archie  shouldn't  marry,  and  have  a  pleas- 
ant enough  time  of  it  ;  and  I  suppose  they  w^ill  quarrqj 
until  one  or  other  gets  tired  of  quarrelling,  and  refuses;  and 
if  they  only  have  a  tidy  little  house  about  Rruton  Street  or 


74  YOLANDE. 

Conduit  Street  and  a  good  cook,  it  will  be  very  convenient 
for  us.  Now  I  wish  to  goodness  you'd  clear  out,  and  let  me 
get  dressed." 

The  dismissal  was  summary,  but  pretty  Mrs.  Graham 
was  a  good-natured  woman,  and  with  much  equanimity  she 
left  the  cabin,  made  her  way  along  the  saloon,  and  up  the 
companion  way  to  the  outer  air.  About  the  first  person  she 
ran  against  was  her  brother,  and  black  thunder  was  on  hi>; 
face. 

*'  Where  is  Miss  Winterbourne  ?  '*  she  said,  inadver 
tently,  and  without  reflecting  that  the  question  was  odd. 

"On  the  hurricane-deck,"  said  he.  "I  dare  say  you 
will  find  half  the  officers  of  the  ship  round  her." 

There  was  something  in  his  tone  which  caused  his  sister, 
with  considerable  sharpness,  to  ask  him  wliat  he  meant; 
and  then  out  came  the  story  of  his  wrongs.  Now  Mrs. 
Graham  had  not  been  too  well  pleased  when  her  husband 
and  everybody  else  sang  the  praises  of  Yolande  to  her  ;  but 
no  sooner  was  the  girl  attacked  in  this  way  than  she  in- 
stantly, and  with  a  good  deal  of  warmth,  flew  to  her  de- 
fence. What  right  had  he  to  suppose  that  Miss  Winter- 
bourne  ought  to  have  singled  him  out  as  different  from  the 
others?  Why  should  she  not  dance  with  whomsoever  she 
pleased  ?  If  the  ship's  officers  showed  her  some  little  ordi- 
nary courtesies,  why  sliould  she  not  be  civil  in  return  ? 
What  right  of  possession  had  he  in  her?  What  was  he  to 
her  in  any  way  whatever? 

"  You  said  yourself  she  was  a  flirt,"  her  brother  re- 
torted. 

"I?"  she  said.  "I?  I  said  nothing  of  the  kind  !  I 
said  that  the  preposterous  innocence  that  you  discovered  in 
her  was  more  like  the  innocence  of  a  confirmed  flirt.  But 
that  only  shows  me  that  you  know  nothing  at  all  about  her. 
To  imagine  that  she  should  have  kept  all  her  dances  for 
you -" 

"I  imagined  nothing  of  the  sort,"  he  answered,  with 
equal  vehemence.  "  But  I  imagined  that  as  we  were  trav- 
elling together  as  friends,  even  a  small  amount  of  friendli- 
ness might  have  been  shown.     But  it  is  no  matter." 

"  You  are  quite  right,  it  is  no  matter,"  she  interrupted. 
**  I  have  no  doubt  Miss  Winterbourne  will  find  plenty  to 
understand  her  character  a  little  better  than  you  seem  to 
do.  You  seem  to  think  that  you  should  have  everything — 
that  everything  should  be  made  smooth  and  pleasant  for 


YOLANDE,  75 

you.  I  suppose,  when  you  marry,  you  will  expect  your 
wife  to  go  through  life  with  her  ballroom  dress  on.  It 
isn't  her  womanly  nature  that  you  will  be  thinking  of,  but 
whether  she  dresses  well  enough  to  make  other  women 
envious." 

All  this  was  somewhat  incoherent ;  but  there  was  a  con- 
fused recollection  in  her  brain  of  what  she  had  been  saying 
to  her  husband,  and  also  perhaps  a  vague  impression  that 
tliese  words  were  exculpating  herself  from  certain  possible 
charges. 

"  You  don't  consider  whether  a  woman  is  fit  to  stand 
the  test  of  suffering  and  trouble  :  do  you  think  she  is  always 
going  to  be  a  pretty  doll  to  sit  at  the  head  of  your  dinner 
table  ?  You  think  you  know  what  Yolande's  nature  is  ;  but 
you  know  nothing  about  it.  You  know  that  she  has  pretty 
eyes,  perhaps  ;  and  you  get  savage  when  she  looks  at  any 
one  else." 

She  turned  quickly  away  ;  Yolande  had  at  that  moment 
appeared  at  the  top  of  the  steps.  And  when  she  came  down 
to  the  deck  Mrs.  Graham  caught  her  with  both  hands,  and 
kissed  her,  and  still  held  her  hands  and  regarded  her  most 
affectionately. 

"  Dear  Yolande,  how  well  you  are  looking ! "  she  ex- 
claimed (meaning  that  her  brother  should  hear,  but  he  had 
walked  away).  "Dissipation  does  not  harm  you  a  bit. 
But  indeed  a  dance  on  the  deck  of  a  ship  is  not  like  a  dance 
in  town " 

Yolande  glanced  around  ;  there  was  no  one  by.  * 

'*  Dear  Mrs.  Graham,"  said  she,  "  I  have  a  secret  to  ask 
you.  Do  you  think  your  brother  would  do  me  a  great 
favor  ?    Dare  I  ask  him  ?  " 

"  Why,  yes,  of  course,"  said  the  other,  with  some  hesi- 
tation and  a  little  surprise.  "  Of  course  he  would  be  de- 
lighted." 

She  could  see  that  Yolande,  at  least,  knew  nothing  of 
the  fires  of  rage  or  jealousy  she  had  kindled. 

^  "  I  will  tell  you  what  it  is,  then.  I  wish  my  papa  to 
think  that  I  can  manage — oh,  everythino: !  when  we  go  to 
the  house  in  the  Highlands.  I  wish  that  he  may  have  no 
trouble  or  delay;  that  everything  should  be  quite  ready 
and  quite  right.  Always  he  has  said, '  Oh,  you  are  a  child  ; 
why  do  you  want  a  house  ?  Why  should  you  have  vexjk- 
tion  ? '  But,  dear  Mrs.  Graham,  I  do  not  mind  the  trouble 
»t  all ;  and  I  am  filled  with  joy  when  I  think  of  the  time  I 


76  VOLANDE, 

am  to  go  to  the  shops  in  Inverness ;  and  papa  will  see  that 
I  can  remember  everything  that  is  wanted ;  and  he  will 
have  no  bother  at  all ;  and  he  will  see  that  I  can  look  after 
a  house,  and  then  he  will  not  be  so  afraid  to  take  one  in 
London  or  the  country,  and  to  have  a  proper  home  as  every 
one  else  has.  And  this  is  what  I  would  aak  of  your 
brother,  if  he  will  be  so  very  kind.  He  will  be  at  Inverness 
before  any  of  us,  I  suppose  ?'"   . 

*'  No  doubt ;  but  why  should  you  look  so  far  ahead, 
Yolande,  and  trouble  yourself  ?  " 

"It  is  no  trouble;  it  is  a. delight.  You  were  speaking 
of  the  carriage  we -should  want,  and  the  horses,  to  drive  be- 
tween Allt-nam-Ba  and  the  steamboat  pier.  Now  all  the 
other  things  that  I  have  made  a  list  of " 

*'  Already  ?  " 

"  When  you  were  so  good  as  to  tell  me  them,  I  put 
them  down  on  a  sheet  of  paper — it  is  safer ;  but  the  car- 
riage :  do  you  think  I  might  ask  your  brother  to  hire  that 
for  us  for  the  three  months  ?  Then  when  papa  goes  to  In- 
verness there  will  be  no  bother  or  waiting ;  everything  in 
readiness ;  the  carriage  and  horses  engaged  ;  the  dogs  sent 
on  before  ,  the  cook  at  the  lodge,  with  luncheon  ready,  or 
dinner,  if  it  is  late ;  all  the  bedroom  things  nicely  aired  ;  all 
right — everything  right.  Do  you  think  I  might  ask  Mr. 
Leslie  ?    Do  you  think  he  would  be  so  kind  ?  " 

"  Oh,  I  am  sure  he  would  be  delighted,  "  said  Mrs.  Gra- 
ham (with  some  little  misgiving  about  Archie's  existing 
mood).  "I  fancy  he  has  promised  to  get  your  papa  a 
couple  of  ponies  for  the  game  panniers  ;  and  he  might  as 
well  get  you  a  dog-cart  at  the  same  time.  I  should  say  a 
four-wheeled  dog-cart  and  one  stout  serviceable  horse 
would  be  best  for  you  ;  with  perhaps  a  spring-cart  and  an 
additional  pony — to  trot  in  with  the  game  to  the  steamer. 
But  Archie  will  tell  you.  It  sounds  so  strange  to  talk 
about  such  things — here.  Jim  and  I  had  a  chat  about  the 
Highlands  this  very  morning." 

"  I  will  speak  to  your  brother  after  breakfast,  then." 

But  after  breakfast,  as  it  turned  out,  the  Master  of  Lynn 
was  nowhere  to  be  found.  Tolande  wondered  that  he  did 
not  as  usual  come  up  to  the  hurricane-deck  to  play  "  Bull," 
or  have  a  promenade  with  her ;  but  thought  he  was  par- 
haps  writing  letters  in  the  saloon,  to  be  posted  that  night 
at  Suez.  She  did  not  like  to  ask :  she  only  waited.  She 
played  "  Bull"  with  her  father,  and  got  sadly  beaten.     She 


YOLANDE,  77 

had  a  smart  promenade  with  Colonel  Graham,  who  told 
her  some  jungle  stories  ;  but  she  was  thinking  of  the  High- 
lands all  the  time.  She  began  to  be  impatient  and  set  to 
work  to  devise  letters,  couched  in  such  business  phraseol- 
ogy as  she  knew,  requesting  a  firm  of  livery-stable  keepers 
to  state  their  terms  for  the  hire  of  a  dog-cart  and  horse  for 
three  months,  the  wages  of  the  groom  included. 

There  was  no  need  to  hurry.  There  had  been  some 
block  in  the  canal,  and  the  huge  bulk  of  the  sliip  was  now 
lying  idly  in  the  midst  of  the  Greater  Bitter  Lake.  All 
around  them  was  the  wide  plain  of  dazzling  blue-green 
water,  and  beyond  that  the  ruddy  brown  strip  of  the  desert 
quivered  in  the  furnace-like  heat ;  while  overhead  shone 
the  pale  clear  sky,  cloudless  and  breathless.  Yolande,  as 
usual,  wore  neither  hat  nor  bonnet ;  but  she  was  less  reck- 
less in  venturing  from  under  shelter  of  the  awnings.  And 
some  of  the  old  Anglo-Indians  were  hoping  that  the ' 
punkah  wallahs  would  be  set  to  work  at  dinner-time. 

The  Master  of  Lynn  had  not  shown  up  at  breakfast ; 
but  he  made  his  appearance  at  lunch,  and  he  greeted  Yo- 
lande with  a  cold  "  good-morning"  and  a  still  colder  bow. 
Yolande,  in  truth,  did  not  notice  any  change  in  his  manner 
at  first,  but  by  and  by  she  could  not  fail  to  perceive  that  he 
addressed  the  whole  of  his  conversation  to  Colonel  Gra- 
ham, and  that  he  had  not  a  single  word  for  her,  though  he 
was  sitting  right  opposite  to  her.  Well,  she  thougiit,  per- 
haps this  question  as  to  whether  they  were  to  get  through 
to  Suez  that  evening  was  really  very  important.  It  did 
not  much  matter  to  her.  She  was  more  interested  in  In- 
verness than  in  Suez;  and  among  the  most  prized  of  her 
possessions  was  a  long  list  of  things  necessary  for  a  shoot- 
ing lodge,  apart  from  the  supplies  which  she  was  to  send 
from  the  Army  and  Navy  Stores.  She  felt  she  was  no 
longer  a  schoolgirl,  nor  even  a  useless  and  idle  wanderer. 
Her  father  should  see  what  she  could  do.  Was  he  aware 
that  she  knew  that  ordinary  blacking  was  useless  for  shoot- 
ins:  boots,  and  that  she  had  got  *'  dubbing  "  down  in  her 
list? 

"  Archie,"  said  Mrs.  Graham  to  her  brother  the  first 
time  she  got  hold  of  him  after  lunch,  "  you  need  not  be 
rude  to  Miss  Winterbourne." 

"I  hope  I  have  not  been,"  said  he,  somewhat  stiffly. 
*'  You  treated  her  as  if  she  were  an  absolute  stranger  at 


78  YOLANDE. 

lunch.     Not  that  I  suppose  she  cares.     But  for  your  own 
sake  you  might  show  better  manners." 

"I  think  you  mistake  the  situation,"  said  he,  with  ap- 
parent indifference.  "'Do  as  you're  done  by*  is  a  very 
good  motto.  It  is  for  her  to  say  whether  wo  are  to  be 
friends,  acquaintances,  or  strangers ;  and  if  she  chooses  to 
treat  you  on  the  least-favbred-nation  scale,  I  suppose  youVe 
got  to  accept  that.  It  is  for  her  to  choose.  It  is  a  free 
country." 

"  I  think  you  are  behaving  abominably.  I  suppose  you 
are  jealous  of  those  young  officers ;  men  who  are  not  in 
the  army  always  are;  they  know  women  like  a  man  who 
can  fight." 

"  Fight !  Smoke  cigarettes  and  play  sixpenny  Nap, 
you  mean.     That's  about  all'the  fighting  they've  ever  done." 

"Do  you  say  that  about  Jim?"  said  the  young  wife, 
with  a  Hash  of  indignation  in  her  eyes.     "  Why — ,' 

"  I  wasn't  aware  that  Graham  was  a  candidate  for  Miss 
Winterbourne's  favors,"  said  he. 

"  Well,  now,"  she  said,  "  you  are  making  a  fool  of  your- 
self, all  to  no  purpose.  If  you  are  jealous  of  them,  won't 
you  be  rid  of  the  whole  lot  of  them  to-night,  supposing  we 
get  to  Suez  ?  And  we  shall  be  all  by  ourselves  after  that ; 
and  I  am  sure  I  expected  we  should  make  such  a  pleasant 
and  friendly  party." 

"  But  I  am  quite  willing"'  said  he.  "  If  I  meet  Miss 
Winterbourne  on  terms  of  her  own  choosing,  surely  that  is 
only  leaving  her  the  liberty  she  is  entitled  to.  There  is  no 
quarrel,  Polly.  Don't  be  aghast.  If  Miss  Winterbourne 
wishes  to  be  friendly,  good  and  well ;  if  not,  good  and 
better.     No  bones  wdll  be  broken." 

"  I  tell  you  this  at  least,"  said  his  sister,  as  a  parting 
warning  or  entreaty^  "  that  she  is  perfectly  unconscious  of 
having' given  you  any  offence.  She  has  been  anxious  to 
speak  to  you  all  day,  to  ask  you  for  a  favor.  She  wants 
you  to  hire  a  dog-cart  and  a  spring-cart  for  them  when  you 
go  to  Inverness.  If  she  thought  there  was  anything  (the 
matter,  would  she  ask  a  favor  of  you  ?  " 

"There  is  nothing  the  matter,"  he  rejoined,  with  perfect 
equanimity.  "  And  I  am  quite  willing  to  hire  any  number 
of  dog-carts  for  her — when  slie  asks  me." 

But  oddly  enough,  whether  it  was  that  Yolande  had  de- 
tected something  unusual  in  his  manner,  or  whether  that 
item  in  her  list  of  preparations  had  for  the  moment  esceped 


YOLANDE.  79 

her  memory,  or  whether  it  was  that  the  ship  had  again  start- 
ed, and  everybody  was  eagerly  looking  forward  to  reaching 
Suez  that  night,  nothing  further  was  then  said  of  the  request 
that  Yolande  had  intended  to  make.  Indeed,  she  had  but 
little  opportunity  of  speaking  to  him  that  afternoon,  for 
most  of  her  time  was  taken  up  in  finally  getting  ready  for 
quitting  the  big  steamer,  and  in  helping  Mrs.  Graham  to  do 
likewise.  When  they  did  reach  Suez  it  was  just  dinner- 
time, and  that  meal  was  rather  hurried  over  ;  for  there  were 
many  good-bys  to  be  said,  and  people  could  be  got  at  more 
easily  on  deck. 

The  clear,  hot  evening  was  sinking  into  the  sudden  dark- 
ness of  the  Egyptian  night  when  the  Grahams  and  Winter- 
bournes  got  into  the  railway  carriage  that  was  to  take  them 
along  to  the  hotel ;  and  a  whole  crowd  of  passengers  had 
come  ashore  to  bid  them  a  last  good-by,  amongst  them 
notably  the  young  Elighland  officers. 

"  Lucky  beggars  !  "  said  Colonel  Graham,  rather  ruefully. 
"Don't  you  wish  you  were  going  out,  Polly?  Wouldn't 
you  like  to  be  going  out  again  ?  " 

"  Not  I.     Think  of  dear  Baby,  Jim  !  " 

"  By  Jove  !  "  said  he,  "  if  Colin  Mackenzie  were  here 
with  his  pipes  to  play  'The  Barren  Rocks  of  Aden,'  1  be- 
lieve I'd  go.     I  believe  notliing  could  keep  me." 

And  so  they  bade  good-by  to  those  boys;  and  Mrs.  Gra- 
ham and  Yolande  found  themselves  overladen  with  fruit 
and  flowers  when  the  train  started.  They  were  tired  after 
so  much  excitement,  and  very  soon  went  to  bed  after  reach- 
ing the  hotel. 

Next  morning  they  set  out  for  Cairo  ;  the  Master  quite 
courteous,  in  a  reserved  kind  of  a  way;  his  sister  inwardly 
chafing;  Yoland  perhaps  a  trifle  puzzled.  Colonel  Graham 
and  Mr.  Winterbourne,  on  the  other  hand,  knowing  nothing 
of  these  subtle  matters,  were  wholly  engrossed  by  the  sights 
without.  For  though  at  first  there  was  nothinof  but  the 
vast  monotony  of  the  desert — a  blazing  stretch  of  sun- 
brown,  with  perhaps  now  and  again  a  string  of  camels  look- 
ing quite  black  on  the  far  horizon-line — that  in  time  gave 
way  to  the  wide  and  fertile  plains  of  the  Nile  Valley, 
Slowly  enough  the  train  made  its  way  through  these  teem- 
ing plains,  with  all  their  strange  features  of  Eastern  life — 
the  mud-built  villages  among  the  })alms  ;  herds  of  buffaloea 
coming  down  to  wallow  in  the  river;  oxen  trampling  out 
the  corn  in  the  open ;  camels  slowly  pacing  along  in  Indian 


so  YOLANDE, 

file,  or  here  and  there  tethered  to  a  tree  ;  strange  birds  flying 
over  the  interminable  breadths  of  golden  grain.  And  of 
course,  when  they  reached  Cairo,  that  wonderful  city  was 
still  more  bewildering  to  European  eyes — the  picturesque 
forms  and  brilliant  costumes  ;  the  gayly  caparisoned  donkeys, 
ridden  by  veiled  women,  whose  black  eyes  gleamed  as  they 
passed  ;  the  bare-legged  runner  with  his  long  wand  clearing 
the  way  for  his  master  on  horseback ;  the  swarthy  Arabs 
leading  their  slow-moving  camels ;  and  side  by  side  with 
the  mosques  and  minarets  and  Moorish  houses,  the  French- 
looking  caf^s  and  shops,  to  say  nothing  of  the  French-look- 
ing public  gardens,  with  the  European  servant-maids  and 
children  listening  to  the  tinkling  music  from  the  latest 
Parisian  comic  opera. 

Then  they  got  them  to  a  large  hotel,  fronting  these  pub- 
lic gardens,  the  spacious  hall  and  corridors  of  which  were 
gratefully  cool,  while  outside  there  was  such  a  mass  of  ver- 
dure— flowering  shrubs  and  palms,  wide-leaved  bananas,  and 
here  and  there  a  giant  eucalyptus — as  was  exceedingly 
pleasant  to  eyes  long  accustomed  to  only  the  blue  of  the  sea 
and  the  yellow-white  of  the  deck.  Moreover,  they  were  in 
ample  time  for  the  table  d'hote ;  and  every  one,  after  the 
dust  and  heat,  was  glad  to  have  a  thorough  change  of  rai- 
ment. 

When  the  guests  assembled  in  the  long  and  lofty  dining- 
saloon(  there  were  not  many,  for  most  of  the  spring  tourists 
had  already  left,  while  many  of  the  European  residents  in 
Cairo  had  gone  away,  anticipating  political  troubles  ),  it 
was  clear  that  Mrs.  Graham  and  her  younger  companion 
had  taken  the  opportunity  of  donning  a  shore-toilette.  Mrs. 
Graham's  costume  was  certainly  striking :  it  was  a  deep 
crimson,  of  some  richly  brocaded  stuff ;  and  she  had  some 
red  flowers  in  her  black  hair.  Yolande's  was  simpler :  the 
gown  a  muslin  of  white  or  nearly  white ;  and  the  only  color 
she  wore  was  a  bit  of  light  salmon-colored  silk  that  came 
round  her  neck,  and  was  fastened  in  a  bow  in  front.  She 
had  nothing  in  her  hair,  but  the  light  falling  on  it  from 
above  was  sufficient,  and  even  glorious,  adornment.  For 
jewelry  she  had  two  small  ear-rings,  each  composed  of  mi- 
nute points  of  pale  turquoise  ;  perhaps  these  only  served  to 
show  more  clearly  the  exquisite  purity  of  her  complexion, 
where  the  soft  oval  of  the  cheek  met  the  ear. 

"By  heavens,"  the  Master  of  Lynn  said  to  himself,  the 


VOJAA-J>E.  81 

moment  he  had  seen  her  come  in  at  the  wide  door,  "that 
girl  is  the  most  beautiful  creature  I  have  ever  seen  !  " 

He  was  startled  into  renewed  admiration  of  her.  He 
could  not  keep  his  eyes  away  from  her  ;  he  found  himself 
listening  with  a  quick  8ym])atliy  and  approval  when  she 
spoke ;  and  as  her  face  was  all  lit  up  with  excitement  and 
gladness  because  of  the  strange  things  she  had  seen,  he  fol- 
lowed her  varying  expressions,  and  found  himself  being  help- 
lessly drawn  under  a  witchery  which  he  could  not,  and  did 
not  strive  much  to  withstand.  She  spoke  mostly — and  she 
was  pleasantly  excited  and  talkative  this  evening — to  her 
father  and  to  Mrs.  Graham  ;  but  sometimes,  perhaps  inad- 
vertently, she  glanced  his  way  as  she  spoke,  and  tlien  he 
eagerly  agreed  with  what  she  was  saying,  before  he  knew 
what  it  was.  She,  at  least,  tiad  no  covert  quarrel  with  him 
or  with  any  one  else.  Delight  shone  in  her  eyes.  When 
she  laughed  it  was  like  music.  Even  her  father'thought 
that  she  was  looking  unusually  bright  and  happy ;  and  so 
that  made  him  very  contented  too  ;  but  his  satisfaction  took 
the  form  of  humorous  grumbling  and  he  declared  that  he 
didn't  know  what  she  was  made  of — that  she  should  be 
making  merry  after  the  long  day's  heat  and  dust,  that  had 
nearly  killed  every  one  else. 

After  dinner  they  all  flocked  into  the  reading-room, 
anxious  to  have  a  look  at  the  English  papers — all  except 
the  Master  of  Lynn,  who  left  the  hotel,  and  was  absent  for 
a  little  time.  When  he  returned  he  went  into  the  read- 
ing-room, and  (with  a  certain  timidity)  wentupto  Yolande. 

"  Miss  Winterbourne,"  said  he,  not  very  loudly, 
"  wouldn't  it  be  pleasanter  for  you  to  sit  outside  and  see 
the  people  passing  ?  It  is  very  interesting  ;  and  they  are 
playing  music  in  the  gardens.  It  is  much  cooler  out  of 
doors." 

"  Oh  yes,"  said  Yolande,  without  the  least  hesitation  ; 
and  instantly  she  rose  and  walked  out,  just  as  she  was,  on 
to  the  terrace,  he  modestly  attending  her.  He  brought  her 
a  chair  ;  and  she  sat  down  by  the  railings  to  w^atch  the 
picturesque  crowd.  She  spoke  to  him  just  in  her  usual 
way. 

"Miss  Winterbourne,"  said  he  at  length,  "1  have  got 
you  a  little  case  of  attar  of  roses  ;  will  you  take  it  ?  When 
vou  get  home,  if  you  put  it  in  your  wardrobe,  it  will  last  a 
long  time  ;  and  it  is  sure  to  remind  you  of  Cairo." 

"When  I  get  home  ?"  she  repeated,  rather  sadly.     "I 


82  YOLANDE. 

have  no  home.  I  do  not  understand  it.  I  do  not  under 
stand  why  my  papa  should  not  have  a  home,  as  other  people 
have." 

'*  Well,  then,  will  you  t&ko  it  to  Allt-nam-Ba?  "  said  he. 
"  That  will  be  your  home  for  awhile." 

At  the  mere  mention  of  the  place  her  face  brightened 
up. 

"  Oh  yes,"  she  said,  in  the  most  friendly  way,  "  that 
will  indeed  be  a  home  for  us  for  awhile.  Oh,  thank  you  ; 
it  is  very  kind  of  you.     I  shall  prize  it  very  much." 

"And  Polly  was  saying  you  wanted  me  to  take  some 
commissions  for  you  to  Inverness,"  said  he,  abasing  him- 
self to  the  uttermost.  "  I  should  be  awfully  glad  ;  I  should 
be  delighted — " 

"  Oh,  will  you  ?  "  she  said  ;  and  she  rewarded  him  with 
an  upward  glance  of  gratitude  that  drove  Cairo,  and  Inver- 
ness, and  dog-carts,  and  everything  else  clean  out  of  his 
head.  "  And  you  are  not  anxious  to  read  the  news- 
papers ?  " 

"No— not  at  all." 

"  Then  will  you  sit  down  and  tell  me  a  little  more  about 
Allt-nam-Ba?  Ah,  you  do  nob  know  how  I  look  forward 
to  it.  If  it  is  only  for  three  months,  still  it  is  a  home,  as 
you  say,  all  to  ourselves  ;  and  my  papa  and  I  have  never 
been  together  like  that  before.  I  am  so  glad  to  think  of  it 
and  1  am  frightened  too,  in  case  I  do  anything  wrong.  But 
your  sister  has  been  very  kind  to  me.  And  there  is  another 
thing,  if  I  make  mistakes  at  the  beginning — well,  I  believe 
my  papa  does  not  know  how  to  be  angry  with  me." 

"  Well,  I  should  think  not — I  should  think  not  indeed  !  " 
said  he,  as  if  it  were  quite  an  impossible  thing  for  any- 
body to  be  angry  with  Yolande. 


CHAPTER  X. 

IN   THE     NIGHT. 


Hb  had  at  last  discovered  an  easy  way  of  gaining  her 
favor.  She  was  so  anxious  to  prove  to  her  father  that  she 
was  a  ca})ablo  house-mistress  that  she  was  profoundly  grate- 


YOLANDE.  83 

fill  for  any  hint  that  might  help  ;  and  she  spared  neither 
time  nor  trouble  in  acquiring  tlie  most  minute  information. 
Then  all  this  had  to  be  done  in  a  more  or  less  secret  fashion. 
She  wished  the  arrangements  at  the  shooting  lodge  to  be 
something  <^)f  a  surprise.  Her  father,  on  getting  up  to 
Inverness-shire  was  to  find  everything  in  perfect  order  ; 
tlien  he  would  see  whether  or  not  she  was  fit  to  manage  a 
house.  She  had  even  decided  (after  serious  consultatiou 
with  the  Master  of  Lynn)  that  when  the  gillies  went  up  the 
hill  with  the  shooting  party,  she  would  give  them  their 
lunch  rather  than  the  meaner  alternative  of  a  shilling  apiece ; 
and  when  the  Master  suggested  that  oat-cake  and  cheese 
were  quite  sufficient  for  that,  she  said  no — that  as  her 
father,  she  knew,  would  not  have  either  whiskey  or  beer 
about  the  place,  she  would  make  it  up  to  the  men  in  giving 
them  a  good  meal. 

.  This  decision  was  arrived  at,  of  all  places  in  the  world, 
in  the  gimcrack  wooden  building  that  Ismail  had  put  up  at 
the  foot  of  the  Great  Pyramid  for  the  reception  of  his 
guests.  The  Grahams  and  Winterbournes  had,  as  a  matter 
of  course,  driven  out  to  see  the  Pyramids  and  the  Sphinx  ; 
but  when  there  was  a  talk  of  their  climbing  to  the  top  of 
the  Great  Pyramid,  Yolande  flatly  refused  to  be  hauled 
about  by  the  Arabs  ;  so  that  Mrs.  Graham  (who  had  her 
little  ambitions)  and  her  husband  and  Mr.  Winterbourne 
started  by  themselv-es,  leaving  the  Master  of  Lynn,  who 
eagerly  accepted  the  duty,  to  keep  Yolande  company.  And 
80  these  two  were  now  sitting  well  content  in  this  big,  bare, 
cool  apartment,  the  chief  ornament  of  which  was  a  series 
of  pictures  on  the  wall — landscapes,  in  fact,  so  large  and 
wild  and  vehement  in  color  that  one  momentarily  expected 
to  hear  a  sharp  whistle,  followed  by  carpenters  rushing  in 
to  run  them  off  the  stage. 

"I  suppose.  Miss  Winterbourne,"  said  he  (it  was  an  odd 
kind  of  conversation  to  take  place  at  the  foot  of  the  Great 
Pyramid),  "  your  father  wonld  like  to  kill  a  few  red  deer 
w^ile  he  is  at  Allt-nam-Ba  ?  " 

"Oh  yes,  I  know  he  is  looking  forward  to  that." 

"Do  you  think."  said  he,  with  a  peculiar  smile,  "that  it 
would  be  very  wicked  and  monstrous  if  I  were  to  sacrifice 
my  father's  interests  to  your  father's  interests?  I  should 
think  not  myself.  There  are  two  fathers  in  the  case ;  what 
one  loses  the  other  gains." 

"  I  do  not  understand  you,"  Yolande  said. 


84  YOLANDE, 

*'  Well,  this  is  the  point.  What  deer  may  bo  found  in 
the  Allt-nam-Ba  gullies  will  most  likely  go  in  from  our  forest. 
Sometimes  they  cross  from  Sir  John's  ;  but  I  fancy  our 
forest  contributes  most  of  them  ;  they  like  to  nibble  a  little 
at  the  bushes  for  a  change,  and  indeed  in  very  wild 
weather  they  are  sometimes  driven  down  from  the  forest 
to  get  shelter  among  the  trees.  Oh,  don't  you  know  ?  "  he 
broke  in,  noticing  some  expression  of  her  eyes.  *'  There 
are  no  trees  in  the  deer  forest — none  at  all — except  per- 
haps a  few  stunted  birches  down  in  the  corries.  Well,  you 
see,  as  the  deer  go  in  from  our  forest  into  your  gullies,  it  is 
our  interest  that  they  should  be  driven  out  again,  and  it  is 
four  interest  that  tliey  should  stay.  And  I  don't  think 
they  will  stay  if  there  is  not  a  glass  of  whiskey  about  the 
place.  That  was  the  hint  I  meant  to  give  you  Miss  Winter- 
bourne." 

*'  But  I  don't  understand  yet,"  said  Yoland.    "  Whiskey  ?  " 

"  All  your  father's  chances  at  the  deer  will  depend  on 
the  goodwill  of  the  shepherds.  The  fact  is,  we  put  some 
sheep  on  Allt-nam-Ba,  mostly  as  a  fence  to  the  forest ;  there 
is  no  pasturage  to  speak  of ;  but  of  course  the  coming  and  go- 
ing of  the  shepherds  and  the  dogs  drive  the  deer  back. 
Now  supposing — just  listen  to  me  betraying  my  father's  in- 
terests and  my  own? — supposing  there  is  an  occasional  glass 
of  whiskey  about,  and  that  th^shepherds  are  on  very  friend- 
ly terms  with  you ;  then  not  only  are  they  the  first  to  know 
when  a  good  stag  has  come  about,  but  they  might  keep  them- 
selves and  their  dogs  down  in  the  bothy  until  your  father 
had  gone  out  with  his  rifle.     Now  do  you  see  ?" 

"  Oh  yes  !  oh  yes !  "  said  Yolande,  eagerly.  "  It  is  very 
kind  of  you.  But  what  am  I  to  do  ?  My  father  would  not 
have  whiskey  in  the  house — oh,  never,  never — not  for  all  tlie 
deer  in  the  country.  Yet  it  is  sad — it  is  provoking !  I 
should  be  so  proud  if  he  were  to  get  some  beautiful  fine 
horns  to  be  hung  up  in  the  hall  when  we  take  a  house  some 
day.     It  is  very,  very,  very  provoking." 

"  There  is  another  way,  "  said  he,  quietly,  "  as  the  cook- 
ery book  says.  You  need  not  have  whiskey  in  the  house. 
You  might  order  a  gallon  or  two  in  Inverness  and  give  it  in 
Qharge  to  Duncan,  the  keeper.  He  would  have  it  in  his 
bothy,  and  would  know  what  to  do  with  it." 

Out  came  her  note  book  in  a  second.  Two  gallons  of 
whiskey  addressed  to  Mr.  Dtmcan  Macdonald^  gamekeeper^ 
AUt-namrJSa,  with  note  explaming.     At  the  same  inor))«*r,t 


YOLANDE.  85 

the  dragoman  entered  the  room  to  prepare  luncli,  and  a 
glance  out  of  the  window  showed  them  the  other  members 
of  the  party  at  the  foot  of  that  great  bkazing  mass  of  ruddy 
yellow  that  rose  away  into  the  pale  blue  Egyptian  sky. 

"Mind  you  don't  say  I  have  had  anything  to  do  with  it," 
snid  he  (  and  he  was  quite  pleased  that  this  little  secret  ex- 
isted between  them).  "My  father  would  think  I  was  mad 
in  giving  you  these  hints.  But  yet  I  don't  think  it  is  good 
])olicy  to  be  so  niggardly.  If  your  father  kills  three  or  four 
stags  this  year,  the  forest  will  be  none  the  worse,  and  Allt- 
nani-Ba  will  let  all  the  more  easily  another  season.  And  I 
hope  it  is  not  the  last  time  we  shall  have  you  as  neighbors." 

She  did  not  answer  the  implied  question  ;  for  now  the 
other  members  of  the  party  entered  the  room,  breathless 
and  hot  and  fatigued,  but  glad  to  be  able  to  shut  back  at 
last  the  clamoring  horde  of  Arabs  who  were  still  heard 
protesting  and  vociferating  without. 

That  same  evening  they  left  Cairo  by  the  night  train 
for  Asyoot,  where  the  dahabeeyah  of  the  Governor  of 
Merhadj  was  awaiting  them  ;  and  for  their  greater  con- 
venience they  took  their  dinner  with  them.  That  scram- 
bled meal  in  the  railway  carriage  was  something  of  an 
amusement,  and  in  the  midst  of  it  all  the  young  Master  of 
Lynn  would" insist  on  Yolande's  having  a  little  wine.  She 
refused  at  first,  merely  as  her  ordinary  habit  was ;  but  when 
he  learned  that  she  had  never  tasted  wine  at  all,  of  any 
kind  whatever,  he  begged  of  her  still  more  urgently  to 
have  the  smallest  possible  quantity. 

"  It  will  make  you  sleep.  Miss  Winterbourne,  said  lie, 
"  and  you  know  how  distressing  a  wakeful  night  journey 
is." 

"  Oh,  no  !  "  she  said,  with  a  smile,  "  not  all.  There  is 
to  be  moonlight,  and  why  should  not  one  lie  awake  ?  My 
papa  wished  me  not  to  drink  wine,  and  so  1  have  not,  and 
I  have  never  thought  about  it.  The  ladies  at  the  Chateau 
scarcely  took  any ;  they  said  it  was  not  any  better  than 
water." 

"  But  fancy  you  never  having  tasted  it  at  all !  "  he  said, 
and  then  he  turned  to  her  father.  "  Mr.  Winterbourne, 
V.  ill  yoti  give  Miss  Yolande  permission  to  take  a  very  little 
v\  ine — to  taste  it  ?  '' 

The  reply  of  he-,    ither  was  singular: 

'   '  would  soonei-    ee  her  drink  Prussic   acid — then  the 
nld  be  at  on". ,"  said  he. 


SQ  YOLANDE. 

Now  this  answer  was  so  abrupt,  and  apparently  so  un- 
necessarily harsh,  that  the  Master  of  Lynn,  not  knowing 
what  blunder  he  had  made,  immediately  strove  to  change 
the  subject,  and  the  most  agreeable  thing  he  couldthink  of 
to  mention  to  Yolande's  father  was  the  slaying  of  stags. 

"  While  you  were  going  up  the  Great  Pyramid  this 
morning,  Mr.  Winterbourne,"  said  he,  "  we  were  talking 
about  what  you  were  likely  to  do  at  Allt-nam-Ba,  and  I  was 
telling  your  daughter  I  hoped  you  would  get  a  stag  or  two." 

'*Yes? — oh,  yes,"  said  Mr.  Winterbourne,  apparently 
recalling  himself  from  some  reverie  by  an  effort  of  will. 
"  A  stag  ?  I  hope  so.  Oh,  yes,  I  hope  bo.  We  will  keep 
a  sharp  lookout." 

"  Miss  Winterbourne,"  said  the  younger  man,  with  a 
significant  glance  at  her  which  seemed  to  remind  her  that 
they  had  a  secret  in  common,  "  was  surprised  to  hear  that 
there  were  no  trees  in  a  deer  forest.  But  her  ignorance 
was  very  excusable.  How  could  she  know  ?  It  wasn't 
half  as  bad  as  the  talk  of  those  fellows  in  Parliament  and 
the  newspapers  who  howl  because  the  deer  forests  are  not 
given  over  to  sheep,  or  to  cattle,  or  turned  into  small 
crofts.  Goodness  gracious  I  I  wonder  if  any  one  of  them 
ever  saw  a  deer  forest?  Miss  Winterbourne,  that  will  be 
something  for  you  to  see — the  solitude  and  desolation  of 
the  forest — mile  after  mile  of  the  same  moorland  and  hill 
without  a  sound,  or  the  sight  of  a  living  thing — " 

"  But  is  not  that  their  complaint — that  so  much  land  is 
taken  away,  and  not  for  people  to  live  on?"  said  Yolande, 
who  had  stumbled  on  this  subject  somewhere  in  following 
her  father's  Parliamentary  career. 

"Yes,"  said  he,  ironically.  "I  wonder  what  they'd 
find  there  to  live  on.  They'd  find  granite  boulders,  and 
withered  moss,  and  a  hard  grass  that  sheep  won't  touch, 
and  that  cattle  won't  touch,  and  that  even  mountain  hares 
would  starve  on.  The  deer  is  the  only  living  animal  that 
can  make  anything  of  it,  and  even  he  is  fond  of  getting 
into  the  gullies  to  have  a  nibble  at  the  birch-trees.  I  wish 
those  Radical  fellows  knew  something  of  what  they  were 
talking  about  before  making  all  that  fuss  about  the  Game 
Laws.  The  Game  Laws  won't  hurt  you  if  you  choose  to 
keep  from  thieving." 

"But  you  are  a  Liberal,  are  you  not?"  said  Yolande 
with  wide-open  eyes.  Of  course  she  concluded  that  any 
one  claiming  the  friendship  of  her  father  and  herself  must 


YOLANDE.  \J^A  ^  87 


needs  be  a  Liberal.     Travelling  in   the  sana^afi^tEftoo 
wliy— 

Well,  it  was  fortunate  for  the  Master  that  he  found  him- 
self absolved  from  replying ;  for  Mr.  Winterbourne  broke 
in,  with  a  sardonic  kind  of  smile  on  bis  face. 

"  That  is  a  very  good  remark  of  yours,  Mr.  Leslie,"  said 
he ;  "a  very  good  remark  indeed.  I  have  something  of 
the  same  belief  myself,  though  I  shock  some  of  my  friends 
by  saying  so.  I  am  for  having  pretty  stringent  laws  all 
round,  and"  the  best  defence  for  them  is  this — that  you  need 
not  break  them  unless  you  choose.  It  may  be  morally 
wrong  to  hang  a  man  for  stealing  a  sheep ;  but  all  you 
have  got  to  do  is  not  to  steal  the  sheep.  Well,  if  I  pay 
seven  hundred  and  fifty  pounds  for  a  shooting,  and  you 
come  on  my  land  and  steal  my  birds,  I  don't  care  what  may 
happen  to  you.  The  laws  may  be  a  little  severe  ;  but  your 
best  plan  would  have  been  to  earn  your  living  in  a  decent 
way,  instead  of  becoming  an  idle,  sneaking,  lying,  and 
thieving  poacher — " 

"  Oh,  certainly,  certainly,"  said  the  younger  man,  with 
great  warmth. 

"  That  is  my  belief,  at  all  events,"  said  Mr.  Winter- 
bourne,  with  the  same  curious  sort  of  smile;  "and  it  an- 
swers two  ends  :  it  enables  me  to  approve  my  gamekeeper 
for  the  time  being,  when  otherwise  I  might  think  he  was 
just  a  little  too  zealous  ;  and  also  it  serves  to  make  some 
friends  of  mine  in  the  House  very  wild ;  and  you  know 
there  is  nothing  so  deplorable  as  lethargy." 

"But  you  are  a  Liberal,  Mr.  Leslie,  are  you  not?"  re- 
peated Yolande. 

And  here  again  he  was  saved — by  the  ready  wit  of  his 
sister. 

"My  dearest  Yolande,  what  are  you  talking  about?  "she 
said.  *'  What  these  two  have  been  saying  would  make  a 
Liberal  or  a  Radical  jump  out  of  his  five  senses — or  is  it 
seven  ?     It  it  seven,  Jim  ?  " 

"I  don't  know,"  her  husband  said,  lazily.  "  Five  are 
quite  enough  for  a  Radical." 

"I  know  I  used  to  have  a  great  sympathy  with 
poachers,"  continued  pretty  Mrs.  Graham.  "It  always 
seemed  to  me  romantic — I  mean  when  you  read  about  the 
poacher  in  poems — his  love  of  sport,  you  know — " 

"  His  love  of  sport,"  her  husband  growled,  contemptu* 
ously.      "A  miserable  sneaking  fellow  loafing  about  the 


88  YOLANDE. 

public-house  all  day,  and  then  stealing  out  at  night  with 
his  ferrets  and  his  nets  to  snare  rabbits  for  the  market.  A 
love  of  sport !  " 

"  Oh,  but  I  can  remember,'  said  she,  stoutly,  ••'  when  I 
was  a  girl,  there  were  other  stories  than  that.  That  is  the 
English  poacher.  I  can  remember  when  it  was  quite  well 
known  that  the  Badenoch  young  fellows  were  coming  into 
the  forest  for  a  deer,  and  it  was  winked  at  by  everybody 
when  they  did  not  come  more  than  twice  or  thrice  in  the 
year.  And  that  was  not  for  the  market.  Anybody  could 
have  a  bit  of  venison  who  wanted  ;  and  I  have  heard  that 
there  was  a  fine  odor  of  cooking  in  the  shepherds' bothies 
just  about  that  time." 

"  That  has  nothing  to  do  with  the  Game  Laws,"  her 
husband  said  curtly.  "  I  doubt  whether  deer  are  protected 
by  the  Game  Laws  at  all.  I  think  it  is  only  a  question  of 
trepass.  But  I  quite  agree  with  Mr.  Winterbourne ;  if 
laws  are  too  severe,  your  best  plan  is  not  to  break  them." 

"  Well,  I  was  cured  of  my  sympathy  on  one  occasion," 
said  Mrs.  Graham,  cheerfully  (having  warded  off  danger 
from  her  brother).  "  Do  you  remember,  Jim?  You  and  I 
were  driving  down  Glenstroy,  and  we  came  on  some  gypsies. 
They  had  a  tent  by  the  roadside ;  and  you  know,  dear 
Yolande,  I  wasn't  an  old  married  woman  in  those  days, 
and  grown  suspicious ;  and  I  thought  it  would  be  nice  to 
stop  and  speak  to  the  poor  peo])le,  and  give  them  some 
money  to  get  proper  food  when  they  reached  a  village. 
Do  you  know  what  Jim  said  ? — '  Money  for  food  ?  Most 
likely  they  are  plucking  a  brace  of  my  uncle's  black  game.' 
Well,  they  were  not.  We  got  down  from  the  trap,  and 
went  into  the  little  tent ;  and  they  weren't  plucking  a  brace 
of  black  game,  but  they  were  cooking  two  hen  pheasants  on 
a  spit  as  comfortable  as  might  be.  I  suppose  a  gypsy 
wouldn't  do  much  good  as  a  deerstalker,  though  ?  " 

And  while  they  thus  sat  and  chatted  about  the  far 
nortliern  wilds  (Yolande  was  deeply  interested,  and  the 
Ivlaster  of  Lynn  perceived  that ;  and  he  had  himself  an 
abundance  of  experience  about  deer)  the  sunset  went,  and 
presently,  and  almost  suddenly,  they  found  themselves  in 
the  intense  blackness  of  the  tropical  night.  When  from 
time  to  time  they  looked  out  of  the  window  they  could  see 
nothing  at  all  of  the  world  around,  though  Jupiter  and 
Venus  were  shining  clear  and  high  in  the  western  heavens,  and 
Orion's  jewels  were  paling  as  tliey  sank  ;  and  away  in  the 


YOLANDE.  8r» 

south,  near  the  horizon,  the  solitary  Sirius  gleaned.  But 
ns  tlie  night  went  on  (and  they  were  still  talking  of  Scot- 
laud)  a  pale  light — a  sort  of  faint  yellow  smoke — appeared 
in  the  southeast,  and  then  a  sharp,  keen  glint  of  gold 
revealed  the  edge  of  the  moon.  The  light  grew  and  spread 
np  into  the  sky,  and  now  the  world  around  them  was  no 
longer  an  indistinguishable  mass  of  black;  its  various 
features  became  distinct  as  the  soft  radiance  became  fuller 
and  fuller  ;  and  by  and  by  they  could  make  out  the  walls 
<»E  the  sleeping  villages,  with  their  strange  shadows,  and 
tiie  tall  palms  that  threw  reflections  down  on  the  smooth 
and  ghostly  water.  Can  anything  be  more  solemn  than 
moonlight  on  a  grove  of  palms — the  weird  darkness  of 
them,  the  silence,  the  consciousness  that  all  around  lies  the 
white,  still  desert  ?  Yolande's  fancies  were  no  longer  far 
away ;  this  silent,  moonlit  world  out  there  was  a  strange 
thing. 

Then,  one  by  one,  the  occupants  of  the  railway  carriage 

dropped  off  to  sleep  ;  and  Yoiande  slept  too,  turning  her 

face   into   the  window  corner  somewhat,  and   letting  her 

hands  sink  placidly  into  her  lap.      He   did  not  sleep  ;  how 

could  he  ?     He  had  some  vague  idea  that  he  ought  to  be 

guardian  over  her ;  and  then — as  he  timidly  regarded  the 

perfect  lines  of  her  forehead  and  chin  and  throat,  and  tlie 

delicacy  of  the  small  ear,  and  the  sweep  of  the  soft  lashe:^ — - 

he  wondered  that  this  beautiful  creature  should  have  been 

so  long  in  the  world  and  he  Avastingthe  years  in  ignorance  ; 

and  then  (for  with  youth  there   is    little  diffidence ;  it   is 

always,  "I  have  chosen  ;  you  are  mine;  you  can  i\otbe  any 

other  than  mine")  he  thought  of  her  as  the  mistress  of  Lynn 

Towers.     In  black  velvet  would   she  not  look  handsome, 

seated  at  the  head  of  the  dinner  table  ;  or  in   a  tall-backed 

(•hair  by  the  fireplace,  with  the  red   glow  *  from   the  birch 

j'igs  and  the  peat  making  glimmerings  on   her  hair?  *  He 

liiought  of  her  driving  down   the  Glen;  on  the   steamboat 

(piay  ;  on  board  the  steamboat ;  in  the  streets  of  Inverness  ; 

raid  he  knew  that  nowhere  could  she  have  any  rival. 

And  then  it  occurred  to  him  that  what  air  was  made  by 
the  motion  of  the  train  must  be  blowing  in  upon  her  face, 
and  that  the  sand-blinds  of  the  windows  were  not  sufficient 
protection,  and  he  thought  he  could  rig  up  something  that 
would  more  effectually  shield  her.  So,  in  the  silence  and 
gemi-darkness,  he  stealthily  got  hold  of  a  light  shawl  of  his 
lister's,  and  set  to  vrork  to  fasten  one  end  to  the  top  of  the 


90  YOLANDE, 

carriage  door  and  the  other  to  the  netting  for  the  hand- 
balls, in  order  to  form  some  kind  of  screen.  Tliis  ma- 
ncBuvre  took  some  time,  for  he  was  anxious  not  to  waken  any 
one,  and  as  he  was  standing  up,  he  had  to  baLance  himself 
carefully,  for  the  railway  carriage  jolted  considerably.  But 
at  last  he  got  it  fixed,  and  he  was  just  moving  the  lower 
corner  of  the  screen,  so  that  it  should  not  be  too  close  to 
Jier  head,  when,  by  some  wild  and  fearful  accident,  the 
back  of  his  hand  happened  to  toucli  lier  hair.  It  was  the 
lightest  of  touches,"  but  it  was  like  an  electric  shock;  he 
paused,  breathless;  he  was  quite  unnerved:  he  did  not 
know  whether  to  retreat  or  wait;  it  was  as  if  something 
had  stung  him  and  benumbed  }iis  senses.  And  light  as  the 
tuoch  was,  it  awoke  her.  Pier  eyes  opened,  and  there  was 
a  sudden  fear  and  bewildernment  in  them  when  she  saw 
him  standing  over  her;  but  the  next  second  she  perceived 
what  he  had  been  doing  for  her,  and  kindness  and  thanks 
were  instantly  his  reward. 

"Oh,  thank  you!  thank  you!"  she  said,  with  smiling 
eyes.  And  he  was  glad  to  get  back  into  his  own  corner, 
and  to  think  over  this  tliat  had  happened,  and  to  wonder  at 
the  sudden  fear  that  had  paralyzed  him.  At  all  events,  he 
had  not  offended  her. 

The  dawn  arose  in  the  east,  the  cold  clear  blue  giving 
way  to  a  mystic  gray;  but  still  the  moon  shone  palely  on 
the  palms  and  on  the  water  and  the  silent  plains.  And 
still  she  slept ;  and  he  was  wondering  whether  she  was 
dreaming  of  the  far  north,  and  of  the  place  that  she4onged 
to  make  a  home  of,  if  only  for  the  briefest  space.  And 
what  if  this  new  day  that  was  spreading  up  and  up,  and 
lighting  the  pallid  moonlight,  and  bringing  with  it  color 
.•nid  life  to  brighten  the  awaking  world — what  if  this  new 
day  were  to  bring  with  it  a  new  courage,  and  he  were  to 
hintf  to  her,  or  even  to  tell  her  plainly  that  this  pathetic 
hope  of  hers  was  of  easy  accomplishment,  and  that,  after 
their  stay  at  Allt-nam-Ba,  if  it  grieved  her  tothink  of  leav- 
ing the  place  that  she  had  first  thought  to  make  a  home  of, 
there  was  another  home  there  that  would  be  proud  and 
glad  to  welcome  her,  not  for  two  months  or  for  three 
months,  but  for  the  length  of  her  life  ?  Why  should  not 
Mr.  Winterbourne  be  free  to  follow  out  his  political  career? 
He  had  gathered  from  Yolande  that  she  considered  herself 
a  most  unfortunate  dracr  ;in(J  incumbrance  on  her  father: 


YO  LANDS.  91 

was  not  this  a.  happy  solution  of  all  possible  difficulties  ?  In 
black  velvet,  more  especially,  Yolande  would  look  so  hand 
some  in  the  dinin(]r-room  at  Lynn  Towers. 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

INTERVENTION. 

Mrs.  Graham  sav/-  clearly  before  her  the  difficulties 
and  danger  of  the  task  she  had  undertaken,  and  she  ap- 
proached it  with  much  circumspection  and  caution.  Time 
and  an  abundance  of  opportunities  were  on  her  side,  how- 
ever. Moreover,  she  and  Yolande  were  like  sisters  now  ; 
and  when  the  men-folk  were  smoking  together  in  some  other 
part  of  the  dahabeeyah,  and  talking  about  public  affairs  or 
their  chances  of  having  a  little  shooting  in  the  neighborhood 
of  Merhadj,  these  two  were  most  likely  seated  in  the  cool 
shade  of  the  Belvedere,  having  a  quiet  and  confidential  chat 
all  to  themselves,  the  while  the  slow-moving  panorama  of 
the  Nile  stole  stealthily  by. 

And  gradually  Mrs.  Graham  got  Yolande  to  think  a 
good  deal  about  the  future,  which  ordinarily  the  girl  was 
loath  to  do.  She  had  an  admirable  capacity  for  enjoy- 
ing the  present  moment,  so  long  as  the  weather  was  fine, 
and  her  father  not  a  long  way  off.  She  had  never  experi- 
enced any  trouble,  and  wliy  should  she  look  forward  to  any? 
Slie  was  in  perfect  health,  and  consequently  her  brain  was 
free  from  morbid  apprehensions.  Sometimes,  when  IVIi's. 
Graham  was  talking  with  the  sadness  begotten  of  worldly 
wisdom,  the  younger  woman  would  laugh  lightly,  and  ask 
what  there  was  on  earth  to  depress  her — except,  perhaps, 
the  absence  of  dear  Baby.  In  short,  Yolande  could  not  be 
made  anxious  about  herself.  She  was  content  to  take  the 
present  as  it  was,  and  the  future  as  it  might  come.  She 
was  far  more  interested  in  watching  the  operations  of  this  or 
that  African  kingfisher,  when  the  big  black  and  gray  bird, 
after  fluttenng  in  the  air  for  a  while  in  the  manner  of  a 
hawk,  would  swoop  down  and  dive  into  the  river,  emerging 
with  a  small  silver  fish  in  its  beak. 

But  if  she  could  not  easily  be  made  anxious  about  her- 


92  YOLANDE. 

self,  she  very  easily  indeed  could  be  made  anxious  about 
her  father;  and  Mrs.  Graham  quickly  discovered  that  any- 
thinp:  suggested  about  him  was  instantly  sufficient  to  arouse 
her  interest  and  concern.  She  played  upon  that  pipe  skill- 
fully, and  yet  with  not  the  faintest  notion  that  her  siren 
music  was  anything  but  of  the  simplest  and  honestest  kind. 
Was  it  not  for  the  welfare  and  happiness  of  every  one  con- 
cerned ?  Even  Jim,  with  his  faculty  for  looking  at  the 
wardonic  side  of  things,  had  not  a  word  to  say  against  it. 
It  would  be  a  very  good  arrangement,  that  oracle  had  de- 
clared. 

"  Do  you  know,  dear,"  said  she,  one  morning,  to  Yo- 
lande,  ''  what  Jim  has  just  been  saying  ? — that  he  would  not 
be  surprised  if,  sooner  or  later,  your  father  were  offered 
some  place  in  the  Government." 

Yolande  opened  her  eyes  wide  with  surprise.  But  then 
she  laughed,  and  shook  her  head. 

"Oil  no.  It  is  impossible.  He  is  not  good  friends  with 
the  Government.     He  has  too  many  opinions  to  himself." 

"  I  don't  know,"  said  pretty  Mrs.  Graham,  looking  at 
one  of  the  little  French  mirrors,  and  smoothing  her  curls. 
**I  don't  know.  You  should  hear  Jim,  anyway.  Of  coarse 
I  don't  mean  a  post  with  a  seat  in  the  Cabinet ;  but  office 
of  some  kind — an  Under-Secretaryship  or  something  of  that 
sort.  Jim  says  he  heard  just  before  he  left  town  that  the 
Government  were  going  to  try  to  conciliate  the  Radicals, 
and  that  some  membei'  below  the  gangway  would  most 
likely  be  taken  in.  It  would  please  some  of  the  northern 
towns  ;  and  Slagpool  is  an  important  place." 

"  Oh,  do  you  think  it  is  possible  ?  "  cried  the  girl,  with 
a  new  light  in  her  eyes.  "  My  papa  in  the  Ministry— and 
always  in  town  ?  " 

"  That's  just  it,  Yolande  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Graham.  "If 
your  papa  were  a  member  of  the  Government,  in  whatever 
place,  he  could  not  go  gallivanting  about  like  this — " 

"  Oh,  of  course  not,  certainly  not,"  the  girl  said,  eagerly. 
"He  would  live  in  London.  He  would  have  ^a  house— 3 
proper  home.  Do  you  think  it  i^  likely  ?  I  never  heard  ol 
It  before.  But  why  should  it  not  be  ? — why  should  it  not 
be,  dear  Mrs.  Graham  ?  There  are  very  few  members  in 
the  House  of  Commons — why,  scarcely  any  at  all — who  are 
returned  by  such  a  number  of  persons.  Look  at  the  ma- 
jority he  always  has ;  does  it  not  say  that  those  people  re 


YOLANDE.  93 

spect  him,  and  believe  he  is  working  for  the  good  of  the 
country  ?     Very  well  \  why  should  it  not  be  ?" 

"  I  quite  agree  with  you  ;  and  Jim  says  it  is  not  at  all 
unlikely.  But  you  are  talking  about  a  house,  Yolande 
dear ;  well,  it  would  scarcely  be  worth  your  papa's  while  t« 
take  a  house  merely  for  you  ;  through  it  is  certainly  of  im- 
portance for  a  member  of  the  Government  to  have  a  town 
house,  and  entertain,  and  so  forth.  You  could  scarcely 
manage  that,  you  know,  my  dear;  you  are  rather  young; 
but  if  your  papa  were  to  marry  again  ?" 

"Yes?"  said  Yolande,  without  betraying  any  dismay. 

"  In  that  case  I  have  been  wondering  what  would  be- 
come of  you,"  said  the  other,  with  her  eyes  cast  down. 

"  Oh,  that  is  all  right,"  said  the  girl,  cheerfully.  "That 
is  quite  right.  Madame  has  directed  me  to  that  once  or 
twice — often  ;  but  not  always  with  good  sense,  I  consider. 
For  it  can  not  always  happen  that  stepmother  and  step- 
daughter do  not  get'  on  well — if  there  is  one  who  is  very 
anxious  to  please.  And  if  my  papa  were  to  marry  again, 
it  is  not  that  I  should  have  less  of  his  society  ;  I  should  have 
more  ;  if  there  was  a  home,  and  I  allowed  to  remain,  I  should 
have  more.  And  why  should  I  have  anything  but  kindness 
for  his  wife,  who  gives  me  a  home  ?  Oh,  I  assure  you  it  is 
not  I  who  would  make  any  quarrel." 

"  Oh  no  ;  I  dare  say  not — I  dare  say  not,  Yolande  dear," 
said  the  other,  with  a  gracious  smile.  "  You  are  not  terri- 
bly quarrelsome.  But  it  seldom  answers.  You  would  find 
yourself  in  the  way.  Sooner  or  later  you  would  find  your- 
self in  the  way." 

"  Then  1  would  go." 

"Where?" 

The  girl  made  a  little  gesture  by  turning  out  the  palms 
of  her  hands  ever  so  slightly. 

"I  will  tell  you,  my  dear  child,  of  one  place  where  you 
could  go.  If  you  came  to  us  at  Inverstroy — now  or  then, 
or  at  any  time — there  is  a  home  there  waiting  for  you  ;  and 
Jim  and  I  would  just  make  a  sister  of  you." 

She  spoke  with  feeling,  and,  indeed,  with  honesty;  for 
she  was  quite  ready  to  have  welcomed  Yolande  to  their 
northern  home,  wholly  apart  from  the  projects  of  the  Master 
of  Lynn.  And  Yolande  for  a  second  put  her  hand  on  her 
her  friend's  hand. 

"  I  know  that,"  she,  "  and  it  is  very  kind  of  you  to  think 
of  it ;  and  I  believe  it  true — so  much  so  that,  if  there  was 


94  YOLANDE. 

any  need,  I  would  accept  it  at  once.  And  it  is  a  very  nice 
thing  to  think  of  ;  that  there  are  friends  who  would  take  you 
into  their  own  home  if  there  were  need.  Oh,  I  assure  you, 
it  is  pleasant  to  think  of,  even  when  there  is  no  need  at  all." 

"  Will  you  come  and  try  it?  Will  you  come  and  see 
how  you  like  it  ?  "  said  pretty  Mrs.  Graham,  with  a  coura- 
geous cheerfulness.  "  Why  not  ?  Your  papa  wants  to  be 
back  in  time  for  the  Budget,  or  even  before  that.  They 
say  that  it  will  be  a  late  session — that  if  they  get  away  for 
the  twelfth  they  will  be  lucky.  Now  you  know,  dear  Yo- 
lande,  between  ourselves,  your  father's  constituents  are  very 
forbearing.  It  is  all  very  well  for  us  to  make  a  joke  of  it 
here ;  but  really — really — really — " 

"  I  understand  you  very  well,"  said  Yolande,  quickly  ; 
'*  and  you  think  he  should  remain  in  London  till  the  twelfth, 
and  always  be  at  the  House  ?  Yes,  yes ;  that  is  what  I 
think  too.  Do  you  imagine  it  is  I  who  take  him  away  oiv 
voyage  after  voyage  ?  No!  For  me,  I  would  rather  havft 
him  always  at  the  House.  I  would  rather  read  his  speeches 
in  the  newspaper  than  see  any  more  cities,  and  cities,  and 
cities." 

"  Very  well ;  but  what  are  you  going  to  do,  Yolande 
dear,  between  the  time  of  our  getting  back  and  the 
twelfth?" 

"  Oh,"  said  Yolande,  with  her  face  brightening,  "  that 
will  be  a  busy  time — no  more  of  going  away — and  I  shall 
be  all  the  time  in  the  hotel  in  Albemarle  Street — and  papa 
and  I  dining  together  every  night,  and  having  a  chat  before 
he  goes  to  the  House." 

"  I  am  sure  you  are  mistaken  there,"  said  Mrs.  Graham, 
promptly.  "  Your  father  won't  let  you  stay  all  that  time 
in  town.  He  hates  the  very  name  of  town.  He  is  too  fond 
of  you,  too  careful  of  you,  Yolande  dear,  and  too  proud  of 
the  roses  in  your  cheeks,  to  let  you  shut  yourself  up  in  a 
town  hotel." 

"  But  look  at  me  !  "  the  girl  said,  indignantly.  "  Do  I 
look  unwell?  Am  I  sick-looking  ?  Why  "should  not  I  live 
in  a  town  hotel  as  well  as  others  ?  Are  all  unwell  who  live 
in  London  ?  No  ;  it  is  folly  to  say  that.  And  if  anything 
were  likely  to  make  me  unwell,  it  is  not  living  in  London  ; 
but  it  is  the  fretting,  when  I  am  away  from  London,  that  I 
can  be  of  no  use  to  my  papa,  and  that  he  is  living  alone 
there.  Think  of  his  living  alone  in  the  hotel,  and  dining 
alone  there — worse  than  that  still,  dining  at  the  House  of 


YOLANDE  05 

Commons  !  Why,  it  was  only  last  night  Colonel  Graham 
and  he  were  speaking  of  the  bad  dinners  there — the  heat 
and  the  crush  and  the  badly  cooked  joints — yes,  and  I  sit- 
ting there,  and  saying  to  myself,  '  Very  well,  and  what  is 
the  use  of  having  a  daughter  if  she  can  not  get  for  you  a 
})ietty  dinner,  with  flowers  on  the  table  ?'  " 

"  I  understand  you  so  well ;  when  you  speak  it  is  like 
myself  thinking,"  said  Mrs.  Graham,  in  her  kindly  way 
(and  not  at  all  imagining  that  she  was  anything  of  a  hypo- 
crite, or  talking  for  a  purpose)  ;  "  but  you  may  put  it  out 
of  your  head.  Your  father  won't  let  you  stay  in  town.  1 
know  that." 

"  Then  I  suppose  it  will  be  Oatlands  Park,"  said  Yo- 
lande,  with  a  bit  of  a  sigh. 

"  No.  Why  should  it  ? "  said  her  friend,  briskly. 
*'  Come  to  Inverstroy.  Go  back  with  us.  Then  we  will 
see  about  the  cook  and  the  housemaid  in  Inverness ;  and 
Archie  will  get  the  dog-cart  and  horses  for  you ;  and  we 
might  even  go  down  to  Allt-nam-Ba,  and  see  that  the  keeper 
has  kept  on  fires  during  the  winter,  and  that  the  lodge  is 
all  right.  And  then  we  will  all  go  on  to  Inverstroy — 
Archie  as  well ;  and  he  will  take  you  out  salmon-fishing, 
for  I  shall  have  my  own  house  to  attend  to  for  a  while  ; 
but  we  will  make  you  just  one  of  the  family,  and  you  will 
amuse  yourself  just  as  you  think  best ;  and  if  we  don't  pet 
you,  and  make  you  comfortable,  and  as  happy  as  ever  you 
were  in  your  life,  then  my  name  isn't  Mary  Graham.  You 
will  just  see  what  a  Highland  welcome  we  will  give  you  !  " 

"  I  know — I  know,"  said  the  girl.  "  How  can  I  thank 
you  for  such  kindness?  But  then  to  think  of  my  papa 
being  all  that  time  left  by  himself  in  London " 

"  My  dear  Yolande,  I  must  speak  frankly  to  you,  even 
if  you  fancy  it  cruel.  Don't  you  imagine  your  father  would 
stand  a  little  better  with  his  constituents,  and  consequently 
be  more  at  ease  in  his  own  mind,  if  he  were  left  by  himself 
a  little  more  than  at  present?  Don't  you  think  it  might  be 
prudent  ?  Don't  you  think  it  would  be  better  for  every 
one  if  he  were  left  a  little  freer  ?  " 

"  Yes,  yes — it  is  so — I  can  see  it." 

"  And  if  you  were  with  us,  he  could  give  his  whole  time 
and  attention  to  Parliament." 

^  "  Yes,  yes — though  I  had  other  wishes  as  well,"  the  girl 
Bald,  with  her  lips  becoming  a  little  tremulous. 

"It  is  a  very  awkward  situation,"  said  Mrs.  Graham, 


Co  YOLANDE. 

with  abundant  cheerfulness  ;  "  but  I  see  the  natural  way  out 
of  it.  Perhaps  you  don't,  dear  Yolande ;  but  I  do.  I  know 
what  will  happen.  You  will  have  a  house  and  home  of 
your  own  ;  and  your  father  will  be  M^ry  glad  to  see  you 
happy  and  settled  ;  and  he  will  give  proper  attention  to 
Parliament  while  Parliament  is  sitting ;  but  when  Parlia- 
ment is  not  sitting  then  he  will  come  to  you  for  relaxation 
and  amusement,  and  you  must  have  a  salmon-rod  ready  for 
him  in  the  spring,  and  in  the  autumn  nice  luncheons  to  be 
sent  up  the  hill,  where  he  will  be  witji  the  others.  Now 
isn't  that  something  to  look  forward  to?" 

"  Yes — but — a  house  of  my  own?  "  the  girl  said,  bewil- 
dered. 

"  Of  course  when  you  marry,  my  dear.  That  is  the  ob- 
vious solution  of  the  whole  difficulty  :  it  will  put  every  one 
in  a  proper  position." 

She  said  neither  yea  nor  nay ;  there  was  no  affectation 
of  maiden  coyness  ;  no  protest  of  any  kind.  But  her  eyes 
were  distant  and  thoughtful ;  not  sad  exactly,  but  seemingly 
filled  with  memories — probably  memories  of  her  own  futile 
schemes  and  hopes. 

That  afternoon  they  came  in  sight  of  some  walls  and  a 
minarat  or  two,  half  hidden  by  groves  of  palms  lying  along 
the  high  banks  of  the  river  ;  and  these  they  were  told  be- 
longed to  Merhadj ;  but  the  Reis  had  had  orders  to  moor 
the  dehabeeyah  by  the  shore  at  some  short  distance  from 
the  town,  so  that  the  English  party  should  not  be  quartered 
among  the  confusion  and  squalor  further  along.  The  con- 
sequence of  this  was  that  very  soon  they  found  themselves 
the  i^ractical  owners  of  a  portion  of  Africa  which  seemed 
to  be  uninhabited ;  for  when  the  whole  party  got  ashore 
(with  much  excitement  and  eager  interest),  and  waded  across 
the  thick  sand,  and  then  entered  a  far-stretching  wood  of 
acacia-trees,  they  could  find  no  trace  of  human  occupation  ; 
tlie  only  living  things  being  an  abundance  of  hoopoes — 
the  beautiful  red-headed  and  crested  birds  were  so  tame 
tliat  one  could  have  flung  one's  cap  at  them — and  wood- 
pigeons,  the  latter  of  a  brilliant  blue  and  gray  and  white. 
But  by  and  by,  as  they  wandered  along — highly  pleased  to 
be  on  shore  again,  and  grateful  fo  the  shelter  of  the  trees — 
they  met  a  slow  procession  of  Arabs,  with  donkeys  and 
camels,  wending  their  way  through  the  dry  rushes  and  hot 
sand ;  and  as  the  animals  were  heavily  laden,  they  made 
DO  doubt  that  the  natives  were  carrying  in  farm  produce  to 


YOLANDE.  97 

(Sell  at  Merhadj.  Then  when  tliey  returned  to  the  daha. 
beeyah,  they  found  a  note  from  Ism  at  Effendi,  written  in 
excellent  English,  saying  that  his  father  had  just  returned 
from  the  interior,  and  that  they  both  would  do  themselves 
the  honor  of  paying  a  visit  the  following  morning. 

But  what  to  do  till  dinner-time — now  that  the  dahabee- 
yah  was  no  longer  moving  past  the  familiar  features  of  the 
Nile  ?  Ahmed  came  to  the  rescue.  The  chef  was  anxious 
to  have  some  pigeons:  would  the  gentlemen  go  ashore  and 
shoot  some  for  him  ?  The  gentlemen  flatly  refused  to  go 
and  kill  those  half-tame  creatures  ;  but  they  discovered  that 
Ahmed  could  shoot  a  little ;  so  they  lent  him  a  gun,  and 
offered  to  beat  the  wood  for  him.  It  was  an  occupation,  at 
least.  And  so  the  two  women  were  left  by  themselves 
again,  with  nothing  before  them  but  the  choosing  of  a  cos- 
tume for  dinner,  and  the  donning  of  the  same.  \ 

It  was  an  opportunity  not  to  be  missed  ;  and  yet  Mrs. 
Graham  was  terribly  nervous.  Slie  had  an  uncomfortable 
suspicion  all  day  that  she  had  not  been  quite  ingenuous  in 
her  conversation  of  the  morning;  and  she  was  anxious  to 
confess  and  clear  her  mind,  and  yet  afraid  of  the  effects  of 
her  confession.  But  Yolande  had  spoken  so  reasonably  and 
sensibly  ;  she  seemed  to  recognize  the  situation ;  why  should 
she  be  startled  ? 

For  good  or  ill,  she  determined  to  plunge  iwrnedias  res; 
and  slie  adopted  a  gay  air,  though  her  fingers  were  rather 
shaky.  She  put  her  arm  within  Yohmde's  arm.  They 
were  slowly  walking  up  and  down  the  upper  deck,  under 
the  awning.  They  could  just  see  the  gentlemen  of  the 
party,  along  with  Ahmed,  disappearing  into  the  grove  of 
dark  green  acacias. 

"  Yolande,  I  am  a  wicked  women,"  she  said,  suddenly. 
"Hear  my  confession.  I  was  not  quite  frank  with  jou  this 
morning,  and  i  can't  rest  till  I  have  told  you.  The  fact  is, 
my  dear  child,  when  I  spoke  to  you  about  the  possibility  of 
your  marrying,  I  knew  of  the  wishes  of  one  or  two  others, 
and  I  ought  to  have  told  you.  And  now  I  wish  to  confess 
everything ;  and  you  will  forgive  me  if  I  say  anything  to 
offend  or-  alarm  you — " 

"About  my  marrying?"  said  the  girl,  looking  rather 
frightened.  "  Oh  no  ;  I  do  not  wish  to  know.  I  do  not 
A^ish  to  know  of  anything  that  any  one  has  said  to  you." 

*'  Then  you  have  guessed  ?  " 

The  mere  question  was  an  intimation.     The  girl's  face 


98  YOLANDE. 

flushed  ;  and  she  said,  with  an  eager  haste,  and  in  obvious 
trouble  : 

"  Why  should  we  speak  of  any  such  thing  ?  Dear  Mrs. 
Graham,  why  should  I  be  afraid  of  the  future?  No  ;  1  am 
not  afraid." 

"  But  there  are  others  to  be  considered — one,  at  least, 
whose  hopes  have  been  clear  enough  to  the  rest  of  us  for 
some  time  back.  Dearest  Yolande,  am  I  am  speaking  too 
much  now  ?  " 

She  stood  still,  and  took  both  of  the  girl's  hands  in  hers. 

"Ami  telling  you  too  much?  Or  am  I  telling  you 
what  you  have  guessed  already  ?  I  hope  I  haven't  spoken 
too  soon.  If  I  have  done  anything  indiscreet,  don't  blame 
him  I  I  could  not  talk  to  you  just  like  sister  to  sister,  and 
have  this  knowledge  in  the  background,  and  be  hiding  it 
like  a  secret  from  you." 

Yolande  drew  her  hands  away ;  she  seemed  scarcely 
able  to  find  utterance. 

"  Oh  no,  Mrs.  Graham,  it  is  a  mistake,  it  is  all  a  mis- 
take ;   you  don't  mean  what  you  say — " 

"But  indeed  I  do  !"  the  other  said,  eagerly.  '*  Dearest 
Yolande,  how  can  I  help  wishing  to  have  you  for  a  sister? 
But  if  I  have  revealed  the  secret  too  soon,  why,  you  must 
forget  it  altogether,  and  let  Archie  speak  for  himself.  But 
you  know  I  do  wish  it.  I  can't  help  telling  you.  I  have 
been  thinking  of  what  we  might  be  to  each  other  up  there 
in  the  Highlands ;  for  I  never  had  a  sister,  and  my  mother 
died  when  I  was  quite  young,  like  yours,  dear  Yolande. 
You  can't  tell  how  pleased  I  was  when  Archie  began  to — to 
show  you  attention  ;  and  I  made  sure  you  must  have  seen 
how  anxious  he  was  to  please  you — " 

She  paused  for  a  second  here,  but  there  was  no  answer  : 
the  girl  was  too  bewildered. 

"  Why,  Jim  would  be  like  a  l6ig  brother  to  you ;  you  can't 
tell  how  fond  he  is  of  you ;  and  your  father  approving 
too—" 

The  girl  started  as  if  she  had  been  struck,  and  her  face 
became  quite  white. 

"Did  you  say — that  my  father  wished  it?"  she  said, 
slowly. 

"Oh  yes,  oh  yes,"  Mrs.  Graham  said.  "What  more 
natural  ?  What  should  he  wish  for  more  than  to  see  you 
happily  married  ?  I  wouldn't  say  that  he  would  be  more 
free  to  attend  to  public  affairs  ;  I  wouldn't  say  that  was 


YOLANDE.  99 

Iiis  reason,  though  it  might  be  one  of  several  reasons ;  but 
I  can  very  well  understand  his  being  pleased  at  the  notion 
of  seeing  you  married  and  comfortably  settled  among 
])eople  who  would  make  much  of  you.  as  I  really  and  truly 
think  we  should.  Now,  dear  Yolande,  don't  say  anything 
in  haste.  I  am  not  asking  you  on  behalf  of  Archie;  I  am 
telling  you  a  secret  to  clear  my  own  mind.  Ah,  and  if  you 
only  knew  how  glad  we  should  be  to  have  you  among  us !  " 

The  girl's  eyes  had  slowly  filled  with  tears,  but  she 
would  not  own  it.  She  had  courage.  She  looked  her 
companion  fair  in  the  face,  as  if  to  say,  "Do  you  think  I 
am  crying?  I  am  not."  But  when  she  smiled,  it  was  a 
very  strange  sort  of  smile,  and  very  near  crying. 

"  Then  if  it  is  a  secret,  let  it  remain  a  secret,  dear  Mrs. 
Graham,"  said  she,  with  a  sort  of  cheerfulness.  "  Perhaf>s 
it  will  always  remain  one,  and  no  harm  done.  I  did  not 
know  that  my  papa  wished  that ;  I  did  not  suspect  it.  No  : 
how  could  I  ?  When  we  have  talked  of  the  years  to  come, 
that  was  not  the  ai'rangement  that  seemed  best." 

She  paused  for  a  while. 

"  Now  I  remember  what  you  were  saying  in  the  morn- 
ing. And  you  knew  then  also  that  my  papa  wished 
it  ?  " 

"  Oh  yes,  certainly — not  that  he  has  spoken  directly  to 
me — " 

But  Yolande  was  scarcely  listening.  Rapid  pictures 
were  ])assing  before  her — pictures  that  had  been  suggetsted 
by  Mrs.  Grahnm  herself.  And  Yolande's  father,  not  liei 
future  husband,  was  the  central  figure  of  them. 

Then  she  seemed  to  throw  aside  these  speculations  with 
an  effort  of  will. 

"  Come,"  she  said,  more  cheerfully,  "  is  it  not  time  to 
dress?  We  will  put  away  that  secret;  it  is  just  as  if  you 
had  never  spoken;  it  is  all  away  in  the  air — vanished. 
And  you  must  not  tell  your  brother  tliat  you  have  been 
talking  to  me;  for  you  know,  dear  Mrs.  Graham,  he  has 
been  very  kind  to  me,  and  I  would  not  give  him  pain — oh, 
not  for  anything — " 

"  My  dear  Yolande,  if  he  thought  there  was  a  chance 
of  your  saying  yes,  he  would  be  out  of  his  senses  with  joy !  " 
exclaimed  the  other. 

"Oh,  but  that  is  not  to  be  thought  of!*'  said  the  girl, 
with  quite  a  practical  air.  "It  is  not  to  be  thouglit  of  at  all 
as  yet.      My  papa  has  not  said  anytliing  to   me.      And   a 


100  YOLANDE. 

little  thinking  between  us  two — what  is  that?    Nothing — 
air— it  goes  away;  why  should  we  remember  it?" 

Mrs.  Graham  could  not  understand  this  attitude  at  all. 
YoUxnde  had  said  neither  yes  nor  no  ;  she  seemed  neitlier 
elated  or  depressed  ;  and  she  certainly  had  not — as  'most 
young  ladies  are  supposed  to  do  when  they  have  decided 
upon  a  refusal — expressed  any  compassion  for  the  unfor- 
tunate suitor.  Moreover,  at  dinner,  Mrs.  Graham  observed 
that  more  than  once  Yolande  regarded  the  young  Master 
of  Lynn  with  a  very  attentive  scrutiny.  It  was  not  a 
conscious,  furtive  scrutiny ;  it  was  calm  and  unabashed. 
And  Mrs.  Graham  also  noticed  that  when  her  brother 
looked  up  to  address  Yolande,  and  met  her  eyes,  those  eyes 
were  not  hastily  withdrawn  in  maiden  confusion,  but 
rather  answered  his  look  with  a  pleased  friendliness.  She 
was  certainly  studying  him,  the  sister  thought. 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

A   SETTLEMENT. 


Next  morning  there  was  much  hurrying  to  and  fro  on 
board  the  dahabeeyah  in  anticipation  of  the  visit  of  the 
Governor ;  so  that  Mrs.  Graham  had  no  chance  of  having 
an  extended  talk  with  her  brother.  Neverthekss,  she 
managed  to  convey  to  him  a  few  covert  words  of  informa- 
tion and  counsel. 

"  Archie,"  said  she,  '*  I  have  spoken  to  Yolande — I  have 
linted  something  to  her." 

"  No !  "  he  said,  looking  rather  frightened. 

"  Oh,  you  need  not  be  much  alarmed,"  she  said,  with  a 
significant  smile.  "  Rather  the  other  way.  She  seems 
quite  to  know  how  you  have  wished  to  be  kind  and  atten- 
tive to  her — quite  sensible  of  it,  in  fact ;  and  when  I  hinted 
something — " 

"She  did  not  say  *no'  outright?"  lie  interrupted, 
eagerly;  and  there  was  a  flush  of  gladness  on  his  face. 

His  sister  glanced  around. 

"  I  thought  there  could  be  no  harm  if  I  told  her  that 
Jim  and  I  would  like  to  have  her  for  a  sister,"  she  answered, 
demurely. 

"And  she  did  not  say  '  no  '   outright?  "  he  repeated. 


YOLANDE.  101 

"  Well,"  Mrs.  Graham  said,  after  a  second,  "  I  am  not 
s:oing  to  tell  you  anything  more.  It  would  not  be  fair. 
It  is  your  business,  not  mine.  I'm  out  of  it  now.  I  have 
intermeddled  quite  enough.  But  I  don't  think  she  liates 
you.  And  she  seems  rather  pleased  to  think  of  living  in 
the  Higlilands,  with  her  father  having  plenty  of  amusement 
tliere,  you  know  ;  and  perhaps  she  might  be  brought  to 
consider  a  permanent  arr^gement  of  that  kind  not  so 
undesirable  ;  and — and — well,  you'd  better  see  for  yourself. 
As  I  say,  Jim  and  I  will  be  very  glad  to  have  her  for  a 
sister  ;  and  I  can't  say  more,  can  I  ?  " 

She  could  not  say  more  then,  at  all  events,  for  at  this 
moment  Colonel  Graham  appeared  on  the  upper  deck  with 
tlie  intelligence  that  the  Governor's  barge  was  just  then 
coming  down  the  river.  Mr.  Winterbourne  and  Yolande 
were  instantly  summoned  from  below ;  some  further  dis- 
position of  chairs  and  divans  was  made ;  some  boxes  of 
cigarettes  were  sent  for ;  and  presently  the  sound  of  oars 
alongside  announced  the  arrival  of  the  chief  notables  of 
Merhadj. 

The  Master  of  Lynn  saw  and  heard  little  of  what 
followed  ;  he  was  far  too  busy  with  the  glad  and  bewilder- 
ing prospect  that  his  sister's  obscure  hints  had  placed  before 
him.  And  again  and  again  he  glanced  at  Yolande,  timidly, 
and  yet  with  an  increasing  w^onder.  He  began  to  ask  him- 
self whether  it  was  really  true  that  his  sister  had  spoken  to 
lier.  The  girl  betrayed  no  consciousness,  no  embarrassment ; 
she  had  greeted  him  on  that  morning  just  as  on  other 
mornings  ;  at  this  moment  she  was  regarding  the  arrival  of 
those  grave  officials  with  an  interest  which  seemed  quite 
oblivious  of  his  presence.  As  for  him,  he  looked  on 
impatiently.  He  wished  it  was  all  over.  He  wished  to 
have  some  private  speech  with  her,  to  have  some  inquiry 
of  her  eyes — surely  her  eyes  would  make  some  telltale 
confession  ?  And  in  a  vague  kind  of  way  he  grew  to  think 
that  the  Governor's  son,  Ismat  Effendi,  who  was  acting  as 
interpreter,  and  who  spoke  English  excellently,  addressed 
a  little  too  much  of  the  conversation  to  the  two  ladies. 
Moreover,  it  was  all  very  w^ell  for  him,  on  coming  on  board, 
to  shake  hands  with  Mrs.  Graham,  for  he  had  known  her 
in  India,  but  why  with  Yolande?" 

The  Governor — a  corpulent  and  sallow-faced  old  gen- 
tleman who  looked  like  a  huge  frog — and  his  companions 
eat  in  solemn  state,  while  young  Ismat,  with  much  grace  of 


1 02  YOLANDE. 

manner  and  remarkably  eloquent  eyes,  hoped  that  the  visi- 
tors were  comfortable  on  board  the  dahabeeyah,  and  so 
forth.  He  was  a  well-dressed  young  gentleman  ;  his  black 
frock-coat,  white  waistcoat,  and  red  tarboosh  were  all  of 
tlie  newest  and  smartest,  and  his  singularly  small  feet 
were  incased  in  boots  of  brilliant  polish.  The  Master  of 
Lyim  considered  him  a  coxcomb,  and  also  a  Frenchified 
semi-theatrical  coxcomb.  But  ^the  women-folk  liked  his 
pleasant  manners  and  his  speaking  eyes ;  and  when  he  said 
that  he  had  never  been  to  England,  but  intended  to  go  tlje 
next  year,  Mrs.  Graham  made  him  defitiitely.  promise  that 
he  would  pay  them  a  visit  at  Inverstroy. 

"And  Miss  Winterbourne,"  said  the  young  gentleman 
with  the  swarthy  face  and  the  brilliant  white  teeth,  "  does 
she  live  in  Scotland  also  ?  "  / 

"  Well,  no,"  said  Mrs.  Graham,  placidly;  "but  1  hope 
you  will  find  her  tliere  when  you  come.  We  want  her  to  go 
back  with  us  when  we  go  back;  and  if  she  likes  her  visit, 
perhaps  she  will  come  again.  I  hope  you  will  find  her  with 
us.'* 

"  And  I  also,  madam,  hope  to  have  the  felicity  of  the 
visit  that  you  propose,"  said  he,  "  if  politics  will*  permit 
me." 

He  directed  an  inquiring  and  rather  curious  glance  at 
Colonel  Graham. 

"  You  did  not  hear  anything  very  remarkable  in  Cairo, 

"  Well,  nothing  remarkable,"  said  the  stout  soldier. 
"  Lots  of  rumors.  Alway  plenty  of  that  in  politics.  Mostly 
lies.     At  the  Consulate  they  thought  we  were  safe  enough. 

The  young  man  turned  to  his  father,  who  was  silently 
and  solemnly  sipping  his  coffee,  apparently  quite  uninterested 
in  what  was  going  on,  and  spoke  in  Arabic  to  him  for  a 
second  or  two.  The  old  gentleman  appeared  to  grunt  as- 
sent. 

"  My  father  says  he  will  have  much  delight  in  sending 
two  or  three  soldiers  to  accompany  your  party  if  you  are 
making  excursions  into  the  interior.  There  is  no  danger, 
except  that  some  bad  men  will  try  to  rob  when  they  can. 
Or  if  you  will  permit  me — if  you  will  have  the  grace  to  per- 
mit me — 1  will  accompany  you  myself." 

"  But  to  take  up  so  much  of  your  time — "  said  prettj 
Mrs.  Graham,  with  one  of  her  most  pleasant  smiles. 

He  waved  his  hand  in  a  deprecatory  fashion. 


YOLA.VDE.  lOo 

"  It  will  be  too  charminiiy  for  me.  Perhaps  your  drago- 
man does  not  know  the  district  as  well  as  I.  Do  you  per- 
mit me?  Shall  I  coiue  to-morrow,  with  everything  pre- 
pared ?  " 

"  Look  here,  Mr.  Israat,"  said  Colonel  Graham,  "  you'd 
better  come  along  and  dine  with  us  this  evening ;  then  we  can 
talk  it  over,  In  t-he  meantime  we  can't  keep  your  father 
and  the  other  gentlemen  waiting  while  we  discuss  our  ram- 
bles. Will  you  please  tell  his  Excellency  once  more  how 
much  obliged  we  are,  and  honored  by  his  visit,  and  that  we 
will  do  ourselves  the  pleasure  of  coming  to  see  him  at  Mer- 
hadj  to-morrow  if  that  will  suit  his  Excellency's  conveni- 
ence ?  " 

This  was  the  final  arrangement — that  young  Ism  at 
Effendi  was  to  come  along  to  dinner  in  the  evening- — a  pros- 
pect which  seemed  to  please  him  highly.  Very  soon  after 
the  grave  company  was  seated  in  the  stern  of  the  barge, 
and  the  big  oars  were  once  more  at  work.  The  dahabeeyah 
returned  to  its  normal  state  of  silence  ;  the  little  party  of 
Europeans  were  left  again  to  their  own  society;  and  the 
Master  of  Lynn,  a  little  anxious  and  excited,  and  almost 
fearing  to  meet  Yolande's  eyes,  and  yet  drawn  toward  her 
neighborhood  by  a  secret  spell,  declined  to  go  ashore  with 
the  other  two  gentlemen,  and  remained  with  his  sister  and 
Yolande  in  the  Belvedere,  in  the  cool  shade  of  the  canvas 
awning. 

No,  she  betrayed  not  the  slightest  embarrassment  at  his 
sitting  thus  quite  near  her  ;  it  was  he  who  was  nervous  and 
awkward  in  his  speech.  She  was  engaged  in  some  delicate 
needlework  ;  from  time  to  time  she  spread  it  out  on  her  lap 
to  regard  it,  and  all  the  time  she  was  chatting  freely  with 
Mrs.  Graham  about  the  recent  visitors  and  their  grave 
demeanor,  their  almost  European  costume,  their  wonder- 
fully small  feet,  and   so  forth. 

"  Why  do  you  not  go  ashore  ?  "  she  said,  turning  with 
frank  eyes  to  the  Master  of  Lynn.  "  It  is  so  interesting  to 
see  the  strange  birds,  the  strange  plants." 

"It  is  cooler  on  the  river,"  said  he. 

He  was  wondering  whether  his  sister  would  get  up  and 
go  away  and  leave  them  together,  and  he  was  half  afraid 
she  would  and  half  afraid  she  would  not.  But  at  all  events 
he  was  now  resolved  that  on  the  first  opporrimity  he  would 
speak  to  iTolande  himself.  He  would  not  trust  to  any  go- 
between.     Was  it  not  enough  that  she  had  had  some  in- 


104  YOLANDE. 

timjition   made  to  her  of  his   wishes  and  hopes,  and  yet 
sliowed  no  signs  of  fear  at  his  approach  ? 

The  midday  went  by,  and  he  found  no  chance  of  ad- 
driessing  her.  His  sister  and  she  sat  together,  and  sewed  and 
chatted,  or  stopped  to  watch  some  passing  boat,  and  listen 
to  the  boatmen  singing  a  long  and  melancholy  chorus  to  the 
clanking  of  the  oars.  At  lunch-time  Mr.  Winterbourne  and 
Colonel  Graham  turned  up.  Then  in  the  afternoon  th«3 
whole  of  them  got  into  a  boat,  and  were  rowed  away  to  a 
long  and  flat  and  sandy  island  on  the  other  side  of  the  Nile, 
which  they  explored  in  a  leisurely  way  ;  and  then  back 
again  to  the  dahabeeyah  for  a  draught  of  cold  tea  in  the 
welcome  shade  of  the  awning. 

It  was  not  until  near  the  end  of  the  day  that  the  long- 
looked-for  opportunity  arrived  :  indeed,  nearly  every  one 
had  gone  below  to  get  ready  for  dinner ;  but  Yolande  had 
lingered  above  to  watch  the  coming  over  of  the  twilight.  It 
was  a  strange  enough  sight  in  its  way.  For  after  the  yel- 
low color  had  died  out  of  the  bank  of  bearded  corn  above 
the  river's  edge,  and  while  the  strip  of  acacia-trees  over  that 
again  had  grown  solemn  and  dark  against  the  clear,  pallid, 
blue-gray  sky  of  the  south,  far  away  in  the  northwestern 
heavens  there  still  lingered  a  glow  of  warmer  light,  and  a 
few  clouds  high  up  had  caught  a  saffron  tinge  from  the 
sinking  sun.  It  seemed  as  if  they  here  were  shut  in  with 
the  dark,  while  far  away  in  the  north,  over  the  Surrey  lanes, 
and  up  among  the  Westmoreland  waters,  and  out  amid  the 
distant  Hebrideen  isles,  the  summer  evening  was  still  fair 
and  shining.  It  led  one  to  dream  of  home.  The  imagin- 
ation took  wings.  It  was  pleasant  to  think  of  those  beauti- 
ful and  glowing  scenes,  here  where  the  gloom  of  the  silent 
desert  was  gathering  all  around. 

She  was  standing  by  the  rail  of  the  deck  ;  and  when  the 
others  had  gone  he  quietly  went  over  to  her,  and  began 
talking  to  her — about  the  Highlands  mostly,  and  of  the 
long  clear  twilights  there,  and  how  he  hoped  she  would 
accept  his  sister's  invitation  to  go  back  home  with  them 
when  they  returned  to  England.  And  when  she  said  some- 
thing very  pretty  about  the  kindness  of  all  of  them  to  her, 
he  spoke  a  little  more  warmly,  and  asked  if  there  was  any 
wonder.  People  got  to  know  one  another  intimately 
through  a  constant  companionship  like  this,  and  got  to 
know  and  admire  and  love  beautiful  qualities  of  disposition 
and  mind.     And  then  he  told  her  it  would  not  be*  honest  ii 


YOLANDE  105 

he  did  not  confess  to  lier  that  he  was  aware  that  his  sister 
had  spoken  to  her — it  was  best  to  be  frank;  and  he  knew 
she  was  so  kind  she  would  not  be  angry  if  there  had  been 
any  indiscretion  ;  and  he  begged  for  her  forgiveness  if  she 
had  been  in  any  way  offended.  He  spoke  in  a  very  frank 
and  manly  way;  and  she  let  him  speak,  for  she  was  quite 
incapable  of  saying  anything.  Her  fingers  were  working 
nervously  with  a  small  pocket-book  she  held,  and  she  had 
turned  partly  away,  dreading  to  lift  her  eyes,  and  yet  unable 
to  go  until  she  had  answered  him  somehow.  Then  she 
managed  to  say,  rather  hurriedly  and  breathlessly, — 

"Oh no,  I  am  not  offended.  Why,  it  is — a  great  honor 
— I — I  knew  it  was  your  sister's  kindness  and  friendship 
that  made  her  speak  to  me.     Please  let  me  go  away  now — " 

He  had  put  his  hand  on  her  arm  unwittingly. 

"But  may  1  hope,  Yolande?  May  I  hope?*' he  said 
and  he  stooped  down  to  listen  for  the  faintest  word.  "I 
don't  want  you  to  pledge  yourself  altogether  now.  Give 
me  time.  May  I  try  to  win  you  ?  Do  you  think  sometimes 
— some  time  of  your  own  choosing,  as  far  ahead  as  you  may 
wish — you  will  consent?  May  I  hope  for  it?  May  I  look 
forward  to  it — some  day. 

"Oh,  but  I  cannot  tell  you — I  cannot  tell  you  now," 
she  said,  in  the  same  breathless  way.  "  I  am  sorry  if  I  have 
given  any  pain — any  anxiety — but — some  other  time  I  will 
try  to  talk  to  you — or  my  papa  will  tell  you — but  not  now. 
You  have  always  been  so  kind  to  me  that  I  ask  it  from 
you—" 

She  stole  away  in  the  gathering  darkness,  her  head  bent 
down  :  she  had  not  once  turned  her  eyes  to  his.  And  he 
remained  there  for  a  time,  scarcely  knowing  what  he  had 
said  or  what  she  had  answered,  but  vaguely  and  happily 
conscious  that  she  had  not,  at  all  events,  refused  him. 
Was  it  not  much  ?  He  was  harassed  by  all  kinds  of  doubts, 
surmises,  hesitations;  but  surely  prevailing  over  these  was 
a  buoyant  hope,  a  touch  of  triumph  even.  He  would  fain 
have  gone  away  for  a  long  stroll  in  the  dusk  to  have 
reasoned  out  his  hopes  and  guesses  with  himself;  but  here 
was  dinner-time  approaching,  and  young  Ismat  was  coming; 
and  he — that  is,  the  Master  of  Lynn — began  to  have  the 
consciousness  that  Yolande  in  a  measure  belonged  to  him, 
and  that  he  must  be  there.  He  went  down  the  steps  with 
a  light  and  a  proud  heart.      Yolande  was  his,  he  almosl  felt 


106  YOLANDE. 

assured.  How  should  she  regard  him  when  next  they 
met? 

And  indeed  at  dinner  there  was  no  longer  any  of  that 
happy  serenity  of  manner  on  her  part  that  had  puzzled  him 
before.  Her  self-consciousness  and  embarrassment  were  so 
great  as  to  be  almost  painful  to  witness.  She  never  lifted 
her  eyes  ;  she  ate  and  drank  next  to  nothing;  when  she 
pretended  to  be  listening  to  Ismat  Effendi's  descriptions  of 
the  troubles  in  the  Soudan,  any  one  who  knew  must  have 
seen  that  she  was  a  quite  perfunctory  listener,  and  probably 
understood  but  little  of  what  was  being  said.  But  then 
no  one  knew  that  he  had  spoken  but  himself,  and  he  strove 
to  convince  her  that  he  was  not  regarding  lier  by  entering 
eagerly  into  this  conversation  about  the  False  Prophet; 
and  though  now  and  again  her  trouble  and  confusion 
perplexed  him — along  with  the  recollection  that  she  had 
been  so  anxious  to  say  nothing  definite — still,  on  the  whole, 
triumph  and  rejoicing  were  in  his  heart.  And  how  beautiful 
she  looked,  even  with  the  pensive  face  cast  down  !  No 
wonder  young  Ismat  had  admired  her  that  morning;  the 
very  Englishness  of  her  appearance  must  have  struck  him 
— tlie  tall  stature,  the  fine  complexion,  the  ruddy  golden 
hair,  and  the  clear,  proud,  calm,  self-confident  look  of  the 
maidenly  eyes.  This  was  a  bride  fit  for  a  home  coming  at 
Lynn  Towers! 

But,  alas !  Yolande's  self-confidence  seemed  to  have 
strangely  forsaken  her  that  evening.  When  they  were  all 
up  on  deck,  taking  their  coffee  in  the  red  glow  shed  by  the 
lanterns,  she  got  hold  of  her  father,  and  drew  him  aside 
into  the  darkness. 

"  What  is  it,  Yolande?"  said  he,   in  surprise. 

She  took  hold  of  his  hand  ;  both  hers  were  trembling. 

"I  have  something  to  tell  you,  papa — something 
serious." 

Then  he  knew,  and  for  a  moment  his  heart  sank  ;  but  he 
maintained  a  gay  demeanor.  Had  he  not  reasoned  the 
whole  matter  out  with  himself?  He  had  foreseen  this 
crisis ;  he  had  nerved  himself  by  anticipation. 

'•'  Oh,  I  know — I  know  already,  Yolande,"  said  he,  very 
cheerfully.  "  Do  you  think  I  can't  spy  secrets  ?  And  of 
course  you  come  to  me,  with  your  hands  trembling,  and 
^ou  think  you  have  something  dreadful  to  confess,  whereas 
It  is  nothing  but  the  most  ordinary  and  commonplace  thing 
in  the  world.     You  need  not  .make  any  confession.     Young 


YOLANDE.  107 

Leslie  has  spoken  to  me.  Quite  right — very  right ;  I  like 
frankness.  I  consider  him  a  very  fine  young  fellow.  Now 
what  have  you  got  to  say?  Only  I  won't  listen  if  you  are 
going  to  make  a  fuss  about  it,  and  destroy  my  nervous  system, 
for  I  tell  vou  it  is  the  simplest  and  most  ordinary  affair  in 
the  world?' 

"  Then  you  know  everything — you  approve  of  it,  papa 
— it  is  your  wish  ?  "  she  said,  bravely. 

**  My  wish  ?  "  he  said.  *'  What  has  my  wish  to  do  with 
it,  you  stupid  creature  !  "  But  then  he  added,  more  gently  : 
"  Of  course  you  know  Yolande,  I  should  like  to  see  you  mar- 
ried and  settled.  Yes,  I  should  like  to  see  that;  I  should 
like  to  see  you  in  a  fixed  home,  and  not  liable  to  all  the 
changes  and  chances  of  the  life  that  you  and  I  have  been 
living.  It  would  be  a  great  relief  to  my  mind.  And  then 
it  is  natural  and  right.  It  is  not  for  a  young  girl  to  be  a 
rolling  stone  like  that  ;  and,  besides,  it  couldn't  last:  that 
idea  about  our  always  going  on  travelling  wouldn't  answer. 
So  whenever  you  think  of  marrying,  whenever  you  think 
you  w^iil  be  happy  in  choosing  a  husband — ^just  now,  to- 
morrow, or  any  time — don't  come  to  me  with  a  breathless 
voice,  and  with  trembling  hands,  as  if  you  had  done  some 
wrong,  or  as  if  I  w^as  going  to  object,  for  to  see  you  happy 
would  be  happiness  enough  for  me ;  and  as  for  our  society 
together,  well,  you  know,  I  could  pay  the  people  of  Slag- 
pool  a  little  more  attention,  and  have  some  more  occupa- 
tion that  way;  and  then  you,  instead  of  having  an  old  and 
frail  and  feeble  person  like  me  to  take  care  of  you,  you 
would  have  one  whose  years  would  make  him  a  fitter  com- 
panion for  you,  as  is  quite  right  and  proper  and  natural. 
And  now  do  you  understand  ?  " 

"  Oh  yes,  I  think  so,  papa  !"  said  she,  quite  brightly  ; 
and  she  regarded  him  with  grateful  and  loving  eyes.  "And 
you  would  have  ever  so  much  more  time  for  Parliament, 
would  you  not  ?  " 

"  Assuredly.*' 

"  And  you  would  come  to  see  me  sometimes ;  and  go 
shooting  and  fishing ;  and  take  a  real  holiday — not  in  towns 
and  hotels?" 

"  Oh,  don't  be  afraid.  I  will  bother  the  life  out  of  you. 
And  there  are  alw  ays  fishings  and  shootings  to  be  got  some* 
how," 

"  And  you  would  be  quite  happy  then  ?  " 

**If   you   were,  I   should  be,"  said  he ;  and   really  this 


108  YOLANDE. 

prospect  pleased  him  so  much  that  his  cheerfulness  now 
was  scarcely  forced.  "  Always  on  this  distinct  and  clear 
understanding,"  he  added,  *•  that,  when  we  are  coming 
back  from  the  shooting,  you  will  come  out  to  meet  us  and 
walk  back  with  us  the  last  half-mile." 

"  I  should  be  dressing  for  dinner,  papa,"  she  said,  "  and 
just  worrying  my  head  off  to  think  what  would  please 
you." 

"You  will  be  dressing  to  please  your  husband,  you 
foolish  creature,  not  me." 

"  He  won't  care  as  much  as  you,  papa."  Then  she 
added,  after  a  second  :  "  I  should  get  the  London  news- 
papers, yes?  Quite  easily?  Do  you  know,  papa,  what 
Colonel  Graham  believes? — that  they  are  going  to  take  one 
of  the  extreme  Liberals  into  the  Ministry,  to  please  the 
northern  towni," 

"But  what  has  that  got  to  do  with  you,  child?"  said 
he,  with  a  laugh.  "  Very  likely  they  may.  But  you  didn't 
bring  me  over  here  to  talk  politics?  " 

"  But  even  if  you  were  in  the  Government,  papa,  you 
would  have  your  holiday-time  all  the  sane,"  she  said, 
thoughtfully. 

"1  a  member  of  the  Government!"  said  he.  "You 
may  as  well  expect  to  hear  of  me  being  sent  to  arrest  the 
False  Prophet  in  the  Soudan.  Come  away,  then,  Yolande  : 
your  secret  is  not  a  secret ;  so  you  need  not  trouble  about 
it ;  and  now,  that  I  have  expounded  my  views  on  the 
situation,  you  may  as  well  go  and  call  to  Ahmed  that  I 
want  another  cup  of  coffee." 

And  then  he  hesitated. 

"  You  have  not  said  yes  or  no  yet,  Yolande  ?  " 
^  "Oh  no;  how  could  I,  until  I  knew  what  you  might 
think  ? "  said  she,  and  she  regarded  him  now  with  frank 
and  unclouded  eyes.  "How  could  I?  It  might  not  have 
been  agreeable  to  your  wishes.  But  I  was  tolU  that  you 
would  approve.  At  first — well,  it  is  a  sudden  thing  to 
give  up  visions  you  have  formed :  but  when  you  see  it  is 
not  practicable  and  reasonable,  what  is  it  but  a  small  strug. 
gle  ?  No  ;  other  plans  present  themselves.  Oh  yes.  I  have 
much  to  think  of  now,  that  looks  very  pleasant  to  antici- 
pate.     Very  much  to  look  forward  to — to  hope  for." 

He  patted  her  lightly  on  the  shoulder. 

"  And  if  you  make  half  as  good  a  wife,  Yolande,  as  you 
have  been  a  daughter,  you  will  do  pretty  well." 


YOLANDE.  109 

They  went  back  to  their  friends,  their  absence  scarcely 
having  been  noticed,  for  Isniat  Effendi  was  a  fluent  and 
interesting  talker.  And  whether  Mr.  Winterbourne  had 
been  playing  a  part  or  not  in  his  interview  with  Yolande, 
that  cheerfulness  of  his  soon  left  him.  He  sat  somewliat 
apart,  and  silent ;  his  eyes  were  fixed  on  the  deck  ;  he  was 
not  listening.  Yolande  herself  bi-ought  him  the  coffee ; 
and  she  put  her  hand  on  his  shoulder,  and  stood  by  him  ; 
then  he  brigiitened  up  somewhat.  But  he  was  tlioughtful 
and  distraught  for  the  whole  of  the  evening,  except  when 
he  liappened  to  be  spoken  to  by  Yolande  and  then  he  would 
summon  up  some  of  his  customary  humor,  and  petulantly 
com))lain  about  her  un-Englishidioms. 

And  she  ?  Her  anxiety  and  nervousness  seemed  to  have 
vanished.  It  is  true,  she  rather  avoided  the  Master  of 
Lynn,  and  rarely  ventured  to  look  in  liis  direction,  but  she 
was  in  good  spirits,  cheerful,  practical,  self-possessed;  and 
when  Ismat  Effendi,  on  going  away,  apologized  to  her  for 
having  talked  tedious  politics  all  the  evening,  she  said,  with 
a  charming  smile, — 

"No,  not  at  all.  How  can  politics  be  tedious?  Ah! 
but  we  will  have  our  revenge,  perhaps,  in  Scotland.  Mrs. 
Graham  says  that  in  their  house  it  is  nothing  but  deer  tliat 
is  talked  of  all  the  evening.     That  will   not  interest  you?" 

*' I  shall  rejoice  to  be  allowed  to  try,"  said  the  polite 
young  Egyptian  ;  and  then  he  shook  hands  with  her,  and 
bowed  very  low,  and  left. 

During  the  rest  of  the  evening  the  Master  of  Lynn,  see- 
ing that  Yolande  seemed  no  longer  in  any  trouble,  kept 
near  her,  with  some  vague  hope  that  she  would  herself 
speak,  or  that  he  might  have  some  chance  of  re-opening  the 
subject  that  engrossed  bis  mind.  And  indeed,  when 
the  chance  arrived,  and  he  timidly  asked  her  if  she  had  not 
a  word  of  hope  for  him,  she  spoke  very  frankly,  thougli 
with  some  little  nervousness,  no  doubt.  She  made  a  little 
apology,  in  very  pretty  and  stammering  phrases,  for  not 
having  been  able  to  give  him  an  answer ;  but  since  then, 
she  said,  she  had  spoken  to  her  father,  without  whose  ap- 
proval she  could  not  have  decided. 

"  Then  you  consent,  Yolande;  you  will  be  my  wife?" 
be  said,  in  a  low  and  eager  voice,  upsetting  in  his  haste  all 
the  continuity  of  these  hesitating  sentences. 

"  But  is  it  wise?"  said  she,  still  with  her  eyes  cast  down. 
"  Perhaps  you  will  regret — " 


110  YOLANDE. 

He  took  her  hand  in  his,  and  held  it  tight. 

"  This  lias  been  a  lucky  voyage  for  me,"  said  he  ;  and 
that  was  all  that  he  had  a  chance  of  saying  just  then  ;  but 
it  was  enough. 

Colonel  Graham  heard  the  news  that  same  evening.  He 
was  a  man  of  solid  and  fixed  ideas. 

"  A  very  good  thjng  too,"  said  he  to  his  wife.  "  A  very 
good  thing.  Now  tliey'll  take  the  sheep  off  Allt-nam-Ba, 
and  make  Corrievreak  the  sanctuary.  Nothing  could  have 
happened  better." 


CHAPTER  XV. 

NEW    PLANS. 


Next  morning,  and  long  before  any  one  on  board  the 
dahabeeyah  was  awake,  Mr.  Winterbourne  was  seated  in 
the  quiet  little  saloon  writing  the  following  letter: 

"  Near  Merhadjh,  on  the  Nile,  May  13. 

"  Dear  Shortlands  : — 

I  have  news  for  you.  You  will  be  glad  to  learn  that 
Yolande  is  engaged  to  be  married — I  think  with  every  pros- 
pect of  happiness ;  and  you  will  also  be  glad  to  know  that 
I  heartily  approve,  and  that  so  far  from  viewing  the  com- 
ing change  with  dread,  I  rather  welcome  it,  and  look  on  it 
as  the  final  removal  of  one  of  the  great  anxieties  of  my  life. 
Sometimes  I  wonder  at  myself,  though.  Yolande  and  I 
have  been  so  much  to  each  other.  And  I  dare  say  I  shall 
feel  her  absence  for  a  while.  But  what  does  it  matter? 
My  life  has  been  broken  and  wasted ;  what  remains  of  it  is 
of  little  consequence  if  her  life  be  made  the  fuller  and  hap- 
pier and  more  secured  ;  and  I  think  there  is  every  chance  of 
that.  After  all,  this  definite  separation  will  be  better  than 
a  series  of  small  separations,  haunted  by  continual  fears. 
She  will  be  removed  from  all  the  possibilities  you  know  of. 
As  for  me,  what  does  it  matter,  as  I  say  ?  And  so  I  have 
come  to  regard  the  handing  over  of  my  Yolande  to  some- 
body else  as  not  such  a  hard  matter  after  all ;  nay,  I  am 
looking  forward  to  it  with  a  kind  of  satisfaction.  When  1 
can  see  her  securely  married  and  happily  settled  in  a  homej 


YOLANDE.  Ill 

that  will  be  enough  for  me  ;  and  maybe  T  inay  have  a  chance 
from  time  to  time  of  regarding  tlie  pride  and  pleasure  of 
the  young  house-mistress. 

"  The  accepted  suitor  is  Mrs.  Graham's  brother  (I  think 
you  know  we  came  away  with  Colonel  Graham,  of  Inver- 
stroy,  and  his  wife),  and  the  only  son  of  Lord  Lynn.  1 
have  had  a  good  opportunity  of  studying  his  character;  and 
you  may  imagine  that,  when  I  saw  a  prospect  of  this  hap- 
pening, I  regarded  him  very  closely  and  jealously.  Well, 
I  must  say  that  his  qualities  bore  the  scrutiny  well.  I  think 
he  is  an  honest  and  honorable  young  fellow,  of  fair  abilities, 
very  pleasant  and  courteous  in  manner  (what  I  especially 
like  in  him  is  the  consideration  and  respect  he  pays  to 
women,  which  seems  to  be  unusual  nowadays;  he  doesn't 
stand  and  stare  at  them  with  a  toothpick  in  his  mouth)  ;  I 
hear  he  is  one  af  the  best  deer-stalkers  in  the  Highlands, 
and  that  speaks  well  for  his  hardihood  and  his  temperance  ; 
he  is  not  brilliant,  but  he  is  good-natured,  which  is  of  more 
importance  in  the  long  run  ;  he  is  cheerful  and  high-spirited, 
which  naturally  follows  from  his  excellent  constitution— 
deer-stalking  does  not  tend  to  conjestion  of  the  liver  and 
bilious  headache  :  he  is  good-looking,  but  not  vain ;  and 
he  is  scrupulously  exact  in  money  matters.  Indeed,  he  is 
almost  too  exact,  if  criticism  were  to  be  so  minute,  for  it 
looks  just  a  little  bit  odd,  when  we  are  playing  cards  for 
counters  at  threepence  a  dozen,  to  see  the  heir  of  the  house 
of  Lynn  so  very  particular  in  claiming  his  due  of  twopence- 
halfpenny.  But  this  little  weakness  is  forgivable :  to  be 
prudent  and  economical  is  a  very  good  failing  in  a  young 
man ;  and  then  you  must  remember  his  training.  The 
Leslies  have  been  poor  for  several  generations ;  but  they 
have  steadily  applied  themselves  to  the  retrieving  of  their 
condition  and  the  bettering  of  the  estate,  and  it  is  only  by 
the  exercise  of  severe  economy  that  they  now  stand  in  so 
good  a  position.  So,  doubtless,  this  young  fellow  has  ac- 
quired the  habit  of  being  particular  about  trifles,  and  I 
don't  object ;  from  my  point  of  view  it  is  rather  praise- 
worthy ;  Yolande's  fortune — and  she  shall  have  the  bulk  of 
what  I  have — will  be  placed  in  good  and  careful  hands. 

"  So  now  all  this  is  well  and  happily  settled,  and  as 
every  one  bids  fair  to  be  content,  you  will  ask  what  more 
we  have  to  do  than  to  look  forward  to  the  wedding,  and 
the  slippers,  and  the  handfuls  of  rice.  Well,  it  is  the  old 
story,  and  you  as    an  old  friend,  will  understand.      That  is 


112  YOLANDE. 

why  I  write  to  you,  after  a  wakeful  enough  night — for  the 
sake  of  unburdening  myself,  even  though  I  can't  get  a  word 
of  your  sturdy  counsel  at  this  great  distance.  As  I  say,  it 
is  the  old  story.  For  the  moment  you  delude  yourself  into 
the  belief  that  the  time  of  peril  and  anxiety  is  past;  every- 
thing is  safe  now  for  the  future;  with  Yolande's  life  made 
secure  and  happy,  what  matters  what  happens  elsewhere? 
And  the  next  moment  new  anxieties  present  themselves; 
the  old  dread  returns ;  doubts  whether  you  have  acted  for 
the  best,  and  fears  about  this  future  that  seemed  so  bright. 
There  is  one  point  about  these  Leslies  that  I  forgot  to  men- 
tion :  they  are  all  of  them  apparently — and  young  Leslie 
especially — very  proud  of  the  family  name,  and  jealous  of 
the  family  honor.  I  do  not  wonder  at  it.  They  have  every 
right  to  be,  and  it  is  rather  a  praiseworthy  quality.  But  now 
you  will  understand,  old  friend,  the  perplexity  I  am  in — • 
afraid  to  make  any  revelation  that  might  disturb  the  settle- 
ment which  seems  so  fortunate  a  one,  and  yet  afraid  to 
transfer  to  the  future  all  those  risks  and  anxieties  that 
have  made  the  past  so  bitter  and  so  terrible  to  me.-  I  do 
not  know  what  to  do.  Perhaps  I  should  have  stated  the 
whole  matter  plainly  to  the  young  man  when  he  came  and 
asked  permission  to  propose  to  Yolande;  but  then  I  was 
thinking,  not  of  that  at  all,  but  only  of  her  happiness.  It 
seemed  so  easy  and  safe  a  way  out  of  all  that  old  trouble. 
And  why  should  he  have  been  burdened  with  a  secret  which 
he  dared  not  reveal  to  her?  I  thought  of  Yolande  being 
taken  away  to  that  Highland  home,  living  content  and  hap- 
py al)  through  her  life,  and  it  did  not  occur  to  me  to  imperil 
that  prospect  by  any  disclosure  of  what  could  concern 
neither  her  nor  him.  But  now  I  have  begun  to  torture  my- 
self in  the  old  way  again,  and  in  spite  of  myself  conjure  up 
all  sorts  of  ghastly  anticipations.  The  fit  does  not  last  long ; 
if  you  were  here,  with  your  firm  way  of  looking  at  things, 
possibly  I  could  drive  away  these  imaginings  altogetlier ; 
but  you  will  understand  me  when  I  say  that  I  could  wish  to 
see  Yolande  married  to-morrow,  and  carried  away  to  the 
Highlands.  Then  I  could  meet  ray  own  troubles  well 
enough." 

He  was  startled  by  the  rustling  of  a  dress  ;  he  looked  up, 
and  there  was  Yolande  herself,  regarding  him  with  a  bright 
and  happy  and  smiling  face,  in  which  there  was  a  trifle  of 
surprise,  and  also  perhaps  a  faint  flush  of  self-consciousness ; 
for  it  was  but  the  previous  evening  tliat  she  had  told  him  of 


YOLANDE,  113 

the  engagement.  But  surely  one  glance  of  that  face,  so 
young  and  cheerful  and  confident,  was  enough  to  dispel 
those  dark  forebodings.  The  page  of  life  lying  open  there 
was  not  the  one  on  which  to  write  down  pi'ognostications 
of  trouble  and  sorrow.  His  eyes  lit  up  with  pleasure  ;  the 
glooms  of  the  night  were  suddenly  forgotten. 

"  Writing  ?    Already  ?  "  she  said,  as  she  went  forward  and 
kissed  him. 

"  You  are  looking  very  well  this  morning,  Yolande,"  lie 
said,  regarding  her.  "  The  silence  of  the  boat  does  not  keep 
you  from  sleeping,  apparently,  as  it  sometimes  does  with 
older  folk.  But  where  is  your  snood? — the  color  suits  your 
hair," 

"  Oh,  I  am  not  in  the  Highlands  yet, "  she  said,  lightly. 
"  Do  you  know  the  song  Mrs.  Graham  sings  ? — 

*  It's  I  would  give  my  silken  snood 
To  see  the  gallant  Grahams  come  hame," 

that  was  in  the  days  of  their  banishment." 

"  But  what  have  you  to  do  with  the  home-coming  of  the 
Grahams,  Yolande?"  her  father  said,  to  tease  her.  "You 
will  be  a  Leslie,  not  a  Graham." 

She  changed  the  topic  quickly, 

"To  whom  are  you  writing?" 

"  To  John  Sliortlands." 

"May  I  see?" 

She  would  have  taken  ui>  the  letter  had  he  not  hastily 
interposed. 

"No."^ 

"  Ah !  it  is  about  business.  Very  well.  But  may  I  put 
in  a  postscript  ?" 

"  What  do  you  want  to  write-to  Mr.  Shortlands  about  ?" 
her  father  said,  in  amazement. 

"Perhaps  it  will  be  better  for  you  to  write,  then.  I  was 
going  to  ask  him  to  visit  us  at  Allt-nam-Ba." 

"Well,  now,  Yolande,  that  is  a  most  excellent  idea ! "  he 
exclaimed.     "You  are  really  becoming  quite  a  sensible  and 

f)ractical  person.     We  shall  want  another  gun.    John  Short- 
ands  is  just  the  man." 

"We  can  give  him,  "  said  she,  sedately,   "the  bedroom 
over  the  dining-room  ;    that  will  be  furthest  away  from  the 
noise  of  the  kennels." 
Then  he  stared  at  her. 


114  YOLANDE. 

*'  What  oTi  earth  do  you  know  about  the  bedroom  over 
the  dining-room,  or  the  kennels  either?" 

"  Mr. "Leslie,"  said' she,  with  a  momentary  flush,  "  gave 
me  a  plan  of  the  house — there  it  is,  papa.  Oh,  you  shall 
have  no  trouble ;  it  is  all  quite  easily  arranged 

She  took  out  a  piece  of  paper  from  her  note-book,  un- 
folded it,  and  put  it  before  him. 

"  There,"  said  she,  with  a  practical  air,  "  is  a  very  good 
room,  that  looks  down  the  glen — that  is  for  you.  That  one 
is  for  a  visitor — yes,  Mr.  Shortlands,  if  he  will  come — so 
that  he  shall  not  be  disturbed  by  the  dogs.  That  one  for 
me—" 

"  But  why  should  you  be  disturbed  by  the  dogs  ? " 

"  Me  ?  Oh,  no  !  I  shall  be  used  to  it.  Besides,"  she 
said,  with  a  laugh,  "  there  is  nothing  that  will  disturb  me — ■ 
no,  not  the  cockatoo  at  the  Chateau  that  Madame  did  not 
keep  more  than  three  days." 

"  But  look  here,  Yolande,"  said  he,  gravely,  "  I  am  afraid 
you  are  going  to  attempt  too  much.  Why  should  you  ? 
Why  should  you  bother  ?  I  can  pay  to  get  somebody  to  do  all 
that.  It's  all  very  well  for  Mrs.  Graham,  who  has  all  her  ser- 
vants about  her,  trained  to  help  her.  And  she  has  been  at  the 
thing  for  years.  But  really,  Yolande,  you  are  taking  too 
great  a  responsibility.  And  why  should  you  worry  your- 
self when  I  can  pay  to  get  it  done  ?  I  dare  say  tliere  are 
people  wlio  will  provision  a  house  as  you  provision  a  yacht, 
and  take  back  the  surplus  stores.  I  don't  know  ;  I  suppose 
so.     In  any  case  I  hire  a  housekeeper  up  there — " 

She  put  her  hand  on  his  mouth. 

"No,  no,  no,"  she  said,  triumphantly.  "Why,  it  is  all 
arranged,  long  ago — all  settled — every  small  point.  Do  I 
not  know  what  cartridges  to  buy  for  you,  for  the  rifle  that 
Mr.  Leslie  is  to  lend  you — do  I  not  know  even  that  small 
point  ?  " 

She  referred  to  her  note-book. 

"  There  it  is,'  she  said.  "  Eley-Boxer,  500  bore,  for  ex- 
press rifle — " 

"  Well,  you  know,  Yolande,"  said  he,  to  test  her,  "  I 
should  have  thought  that  when  the  Master  proposed  to  lend 
me  a  rifle,  he  might  have  presented  me  with  some  cart- 
ridges, instead  of  letting  me  buy  them  for  myself." 

But  she  did  not  see  the  point. 

"  Perhaps  he  did  not  remember,"  said  she,  lightly. 
•*  Perhaps  it  is  not  customary.     No  matter ;  I  shall  have 


YOLANDE.  115 

them.  It  is  very  obliging  that  you  get  the  loan  of  the  rifle. 
Qaand  on  emprunte^  on  ne  choisit  pas.''^ 

*'  Very  well,  then  ;  go  away,  and  let  me  finish  my  let- 
ter," said  he,  good-naturedly. 

When  she  had  gone  he  turned  the  sheet  of  paper  that 
he  had  placed  face  downward,  and  continued : — 

"  When  I  had  wn-itten  the  above  Yolande  came  into  the 
saloon.  She  has  just  gone,  and  everything  is  changed.  It 
is  impossible  to  look  at  her — so  full  of  hope  and  life  and 
cheerfulness — and  be  downcast  about  the  future.  It  ap- 
pears to  me  now  that  whatever  trouble  may  befal  will  af- 
fect me  only,  and  that  that  does  not  much  matter,  and  that 
she  will  be  living  a  happy  life  far  away  there  in  the  north 
without  a  care.  Is  it  not  quite  simple  ?  She  will  no  longer 
bear  my  name.  Even  if  she  were  to  come  to  London — • 
though  it  is  far  from  probable  they  will  ever  have  a  London 
house,  even  for  the  season — she  will  come  either  as  the 
Hon.  Mrs.  Leslie,  or  as  Lady  Lynn  ;  and  nothing  could  oc- 
cur to  alarm  her  or  annoy  her  husband.  Everything  ap- 
pears to  have  happened  for  the  best,  aud  I  don't  see  how 
any  contretemps  could  arise.  When  we  return  to  England 
the  proposal  is  that  Yolande  should  go  on  with  the  Grahams 
to  Inverstroy,  until  I  go  down  to  a  shooting  that  I  have 
rented  for  the  season  from  Lord  Lynn — Allt-nam-Ba  is  the 
name  of  the  place — and  there  we  should  be  for  the  follow- 
ing three  months.  I  don't  know^  how  long  the  engage- 
ment of  the  young  people  is  likely  to  last ;  but  I  should  say 
they  knew  each  other  pretty  well  after  being  constantly  in 
each  other's  society  all  this  time  ;  and  I,  of  course,  could 
wdsh  for  nothing  better  than  a  speedy  marriage.  Nor  will 
there  be  any  risk  about  that.  Whether  it  takes  place  in 
the  Higlilands,  or  at  Weybridge,  or  anywhere  else,  there 
need  be  no  great  ceremony  or  publicity ;  and  I  would 
gladly  pay  for  a  special  license,. which  I  could  fairly  do  on 
the  plea  that  it  was  merely  a  whim  of  my  own. 

"  Now  as  for  yourself,  dear  old  boy.  Would  you  be 
surprised  to  hear  that  Yolande  has  just  suggested — entirely 
her  own  suggestion,  mind — that  you  should  come  and  pay 
us  a  visit  at  that  shooting-box?  She  has  even  decided  that 
you  are  to  have  the  bedroom  farthest  removed  iVoni  the 
noise  of  the  kennels.  I  do  hope  you  will  be  able  to  go 
down  with  me  for  the  Twelfth.  Witli  decent  shooting,  and 
if  the  moor  is  in  its  normal  state,  they  say  we  sliould  get 
1000  or  1200  brace ;  and,  besides  that,  the  moor  abuts  on 


116  YOLANDE. 

three  deer  forests,  and  there  is  no  reason,  moral  or  legal, 
why  you  shouldn't  have  a  shot  at  such/ercB  naturoe  as  may 
stray  on  to  your  ground.  And  then  (which  is,  perha])8,  a 
more  important  thing — at  all  events,  you  would  be  inter- 
ested, for  I  think  you  rather  like  the  child)  you  would  see 
what  kind  of  a  choice  Yolande  has  made,  I  hope  I  am  not 
blinded  by  ray  own  wishes;  but  it  seems  as  if  everything 
promised  well. 

"  There  is  another  thing  I  want  to  mention  to  you  be- 
fore I  close  this  screed — which  more  resembles  the  letters 
of  our  youth  than  the  staccato  notes  they  call  letters  nowa- 
days. I  have  talked  to  you  about  this  engagement  as  if  it 
were  a  good  arrangement — a  solution,  in  fact,  of  a  very- 
awkward  problem  ;  but  don't  think  for  a  moment  that, 
when  they  do  marry,  it  will  be  anything  but  a  marriage  of 
affection.  Mr.  Leslie  is  not  so  poor  that  he  need  to  marry 
for  money;  on  the  contrary,  the  family  are  fairly  well  off 
now,  and  the  estates  almost  free ;  and  Yolande,  on  the  other 
hand,  is  not  the  sort  of  creature  to  marry  for  title  or  social 
position.  I  saw  that  he  was  drawing  toward  her  a  long 
time  ago — as  far  back,  indeed,  as  the  time  of  our  arriving 
at  Malta;  and  as  for  her,  she  made  a  friend  and  companion 
of  him  almost  at  the  beginning  of  the  voyage  in  a  way  very 
unusual  with  her ;  for  I  have  noticed  again  and  again,  in 
travelling,  how  extremely  reserved  she  was  when  any  one 
seemed  anxious  to  make  her  acquaintance.  No  doubt  the 
fact  that  he  was  Mrs.  Graham's  brother  had  something  to 
do  with  it ;  for  the  Grahams  were  very  kind  to  her  at  Oat- 
lands,  and  have  been  ever  since,  I  need  hardly  say.  It  will 
be  very  pleasant  to  her  to  have  such  agreeable  neiglibors 
when  she  marries.  Mrs.  Graham  treats  her  like  a  sister 
already.  She  will  not  be  going  among  strange  kinsfolk,  nor 
among  those  likely  to  judge  her  harshly. 

"  So  far  we  have  enjoyed  the  trip  very  well,  though,  ot 
course,  to  some  of  us  its  chief  interest  lay  in  this  little 
drama  that  now  points,  I  hope,  to  a  happy  conclusion.  We 
have  had  the  whole  Nile  to  ourselves — all  the  tourists  gone 
long  ago.  The  heat  considerable  :  yesterday  at  midday  it 
was  108  degrees  in  the  shade  ;  but  it  is  a  dry  heat,  and  not 
bebilitating.  Of  course  we  keep  under  shelter  on  the 
hottest  days.  I  hear  that  the  wine  at  dinner  is  of  a  tem- 
perature of  90  degrees,  there  being  no  ice  ;  so  that  we 
abstainers  have  rather  the  best  of  it,  the  water,  kept  in 
porous    jars,   being  much    cooler  than    that.      We   visit 


YOLANDE.  117 

Merhadj  to-day,  and  thereafter  begin  a  series  of  excursions 
in  tlie  neighborhood — if  all  goes  well.  But  we  heard  some 
ugly  rumors  in  Cairo,  and  may  at  any  moment  have  to  beat 
a  swift  retreat. 

**  As  soon  as  I  get  back  I  shall  begin  my  Parliamentary 
attendance  again,  and  stick  close  to  work  until  the  end  of 
the  session,  and  I  have  no  doubt  the  Government  will  give 
nie  plenty  of  chances  of  reminding  the  Slagpool  people  of 
my  existence.  I  wish  you  would  have  a  paragraph  put  in 
one  of  the  London  papers  to  the  effect  that  the  health  of 
the  member  for  Slagpool  being  now  almost  re-established 
by  his  visit  to  Egypt,  he  will  in  a  few  weeks  be  able  to  take 
his  place  again  in  the  House.  Then  the  Slagpool  papers 
would  copy.  They  have  been  very  forbearing  with  me, 
those  people  ;  I  suppose  it  is  because  I  bully  them.  They 
would  have  turned  out  any  more  complaisant  person  long 
ago. 

"  Yolande — still  harping  on  his  daugliter,  you  will  say  ; 
but  it  is  only  for  a  little  while  :  soon  I  shall  see  and  hear 
little  enough  of  her — has  undertaken  the  whole  control  and 
household  management  of  the  shooting-box,  and  I  dare  say 
she  will  make  a  hash  of  it  ;  but  I  don't  think  you  will  be 
severe  on  her,  if,  as  I  hope,  you  can  come  to  us.  It  will  be 
an  occupation  and  amusement  for  her  while  she  is  in  the 
Highlands  ;  and  I  am  very  glad  she  is  going  to  be  with  the 
Grahams  during  that  interval.  She  wearied  a  good  deal 
at  Oatlands  Park,  though  she  tried  not  to  show  it  ;  and  as 
for  ever  having  her  in  London  again — no,  that  is  impossible. 
Mrs.  Leslie  or  Lady  Lynn  may  come  and  live  in  London 
when  she  pleases — though  I  hope  it  may  be  many  a  year 
before  she  does  so — but  not  Yolande  Winterbourne.  Poor 
child,  she  little  knows  what  kind  of  a  shadow  there  is  behind 
her  fair  and  bright  young  life.  I  hope  she  will  never  know ; 
I  am  beginning  to  believe  now  that  she  will  never  know  ; 
and  this  that  has  just  happened,  ought  to  give  one  courage 
and  strength. 

*'  Do  not  attempt  to  answer  this  letter.  The  writing  of 
it  has  been  a  relief  to  me.  I  may  be  back  in  town  very 
shortly  after  you  get  it  ;  for  we  shall  only  stay  in  Cairo  a 
few  days  to  get  some  things  for  Yolande  that  may  be  of 
service  to  her  after. 

Always  your  friend, 

"  G.  K.  Winterbourne. 

•*  P.S. — I  should  not  wonder  at  all  if,  before  this  letter 


118  YOLANDE. 

gets  posted  even,  that  torment  of  fear  and  nervous  appre* 
heirsion  should  again  get  possession  of  me.  I  wish  the 
marriage  were  well  over,  and  I  left  alone  in  London." 

The  various  noises  throughout  the  dahabeeyah  now  told 
him  that  all  the  people  were  stirring  ;  he  carefully  folded 
this  letter  and  put  it  in  his  pocket  (that  he  might  read  it 
over  again  at  his  leisure),  and  then  he  went  out  and  ip  the 
stairs  to  the  higher  deck.  Yolande  was  leaning  with  her 
elbows  on  the  rail,  gazing  out  on  the  wide  waters  and  the 
far  wastes  of  sand.  She  did  not  hear  him  approach  ;  she 
was  carelessly  singing  to  herself  some  snatch  of  a  French 
8ong,  and  doubtless  not  thinking  at  all  how  inappropriate 
the  words  were  ; 

"  Ohe! .  . .  c'est  la  terre  de  France 
Ohe! .  .  .  Garcons!  bonne  espe'rancel 
Yois-tu,  la-bas,  sous  le  del  gris 
A  I'horizon  ?  .  .  .  C'est  le  pays  I 

Madelon,  Ferine 

Toinon,  Catherine — " 

"  Yolande,"  said  he  ;  and  she  started  and  turned  round 
quickl}'. 

"  Why,  you  don't  seem  to  consider  that  you  have  taken 
a  very  serious  step  in  life,"  he  said,  with  a  smile. 

''Moi?" 

Then  bhe  recalled  herself  to  her  proper  tongue. 

"  I  think  it  pleases  every  one  ;  do  you  not?"  she  said, 
brightly ;  and  there  were  no  more  forebodings  possible 
when  he  found  himself,  as  now,  face  to  face  with  the  shining 
cheerfulness  of  her  eyes. 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

OBEDIENCE. 


Yolande  was  right  on  that  one  point,  at  least :  every 
one  seemed  greatly  pleased.  There  was  a  n«w  and  obvious 
satisfaction  permeating  all  through  this  little  party  in  exile. 
Mrs.  Graham  was  more  affectionate  than  ever — it  M'^as  "  dear 
Yolande  "   every   other   minute  ;  Colonel  Graham  was  as- 


YOLANDE.  119 

Biduons  \n  giving  her  perfectly  idiotic  advice  about  hei 
housekeeping  at  AUt-nam-Ba  ;  and  the  Master  of  Lynn 
sought,  but  sought  in  vain,  for  opportunities  of  having  little 
confidential  talks  with  her.  And  the  most  light-hearted  oi 
them  all  was  Yolande  herself.  Her  decision  once  given 
she  seemed  to  trouble  herself  no  more  about  the  future. 
Every  one  was  plest^ed  ;  so  was  she.  She  betrayed  no  con- 
cern  ;  she  was  not  en:barrassed  by  that  increase  of  attention 
and  kindness  which,  however  slight,  was  easily  recognizable 
and  significant.  To  all  appearance  she  was  occupied,  not 
in  the  least  with  her  futui  2  duties  as  a  wife^  but  solely  and 
delightedly  with  preparations  for  the  approaching  visit  to 
Merhadj  ;  and  she  was  right  thankful  that  they  were  going 
by  water,  for  on  two  occasions  they  had  found  the  sand  of 
the  river-bank  to  be  of  a  temperature  of  140®  in  the  sun, 
which  was  not  very  pleasant  for  women-folk  wearing  thin- 
soled  boots. 

When  they  had  got  into  the  stern  of  the  big  boat,  and 
were  being  rowed  up  the  wide,  yellow-green  river,  her  father 
could  not  help  regarding  this  gayety  of  demeanor  witli  an 
increasing  wonder,  and  even  with  a  touch  of  apprehensive 
doubt.  And  then  again  he  argued  with  himself.  Why 
should  she  anticipate  the  gravities  of  life  ?  Why  should 
she  not  be  careless  and  light-hearted,  and  happy  in  the 
small  excitement  of  the  moment?  Would  it  not  b^  time 
to  face  the  evil  days,  if  there  were  to  be  any  such,  when 
they  came*?  And  why  should  they  come  at  all?  Surely 
some  lives  were  destined  for  peace.  Why  should  not  tlie 
story  of  her  life  be  like  the  scene  now  around  them — placid, 
beautiful,  and  calm,  with  unclouded  skies  ?  To  some  that 
was  given,  and  Yolande  (he  gradually  convinced  himself) 
would  be  one  of  those.  To  look  at  her  face — so  full  of  life 
and  pleasure  and  bright  cheerfulness — was  to  acquire  hope; 
it  was  not  possible  to  associate  misery  or  despair  with  those 
clear-shining,  confident  eyes.  Her  life  (he  returned  to  the 
fancy)  was  to  be  like  the  scenery  in  which  the  courtship  and 
engagement  passage  of  it  had  chanced  to  occur — pretty, 
placid,  unclouded,  not  too  romantic.  And  so  by  the  time 
they  reached  Merhadj  he  had  grown  to  be,  or  had  forced 
himself  to  appear,  as  cheerful  as  any  of  them.  He  knew  he 
was  nervous,  fretful,  and  liable  to  gloomy  anticipations  ; 
but  he  also  had  a  certain  power  of  fighting  against  these, 
and  that  he  could  do  best  when  Yolande  was  actually  beside 
bim.      Arid  Avn*'  slie  not   there  now — merrv  and  lauehino 


120  YOLANDE. 

and  delighted  ;  eagerly  interested  in  these  new  scenes,  and 
trying  to  talk  to  every  one  at  once  ?  He  began  to  share  in 
her  excitement  ;  he  forgot  about  those  vague  horoscopes 
it  was  the  crowd  of  boats,  and  the  children  swimming  in 
the  Nile,  and  the  women  coming  down  with  pitchers  on 
their  heads,  and  all  the  other  busy  and  picturesque  features 
along  the  shore  that  he  was  looking  at,  because  she  also  was 
looking  at  them  ;  and  it  was  no  visionary  Yolande  of  the 
future,  but  the  very  sensible  and  practical  and  light-hearted 
Yoland  of  that  very  moment,  tliat  he  had  to  grip  by  the 
arm  with  an  angry  remonstrance  about  her  attempting  to 
walk  down  the  gangboard  by  herself,  she  only  laughed  ;  she 
never  believed  much  in  her  father's  anger. 

They  got  ashore  to  find  themselves  in  the  midst  of  a 
frightful  tumult  and  confusion — at  least  so  it  appeared  to 
them  after  the  silence  and  seclusion  of  the  dahabeeyah. 
Donkeys  were  being  driven  down  to  the  river,  raising  clouds 
of  dust  as  they  came  trotting  along ;  the  banks  swarmed 
with  mules  and  camels  and  water-carriers,  the  women  were 
filling  their  pitchers,  the  boys  their  pigskin  vessels ;  the 
children  were  diving  and  splashing  and  calling ;  and 
altogether  the  bustle  and  clamor  seemed  different  enough 
from  the  ordinary  repose  of  Eastern  life,  and  were  even  a 
trifle  bewildering.  But  in  the  midst  of  it  all  appeared 
young  Ismat  Effendi,  who  came  hurrying  down  the  bank  to 
offer  a  hundred  eager  apologies  for  his  not  having  been  in 
time  to  receive  them;  and  under  his  guidance. they  got 
away  fi-om  the  noise  and  squalor,  and  proceeded  to  cross  a 
large  open  square,  planted  with  a  few  acacia-trees,  to  the 
Governor's  house  just  outside  the  town.  The  young  Ismat 
was  delighted  to  be  the  escort  of  those  two  English  ladies. 
He  talked  very  fast ;  his  eyes  were  eloquent ;  and  his 
smiling  face  showed  how  proud  and  pleased  he  was.  And 
would  they  go  through  the  town  with  him  after  they  had 
done  his  father  the  honor  of  a  visit? 

"  The  bazars  are  not  like  Cairo,"  said  he.  "  No;,  no  ; 
Avho  could  expect  that  ?  We  are  a  small  town,  but  we  are 
more  Egyptian  than  Cairo ;  we  are  not  half  foreign,  like 
Cairo." 

"  I  am  sure  it  will  be  all  the  more  interesting  on  that 
account,"  said  Mrs.  Graham,  graciously  ;  and  Yolande  was 
pleased  to  express  the  same  opinion ;  and  young  Ismat 
Effendi's  face  seemed  to  say  that  a  gi-eat  honor  liad  been 
conferred  on  him  and  on  Merhadj. 


YOLANDE.  121 

And  indeed  they  were  sufficiently  interested  in  wliat 
they  could  already  see  of  the  place — this  wide  sandy  square, 
with  its  acacias  in  tubs,  its  strings  of  donkeys  and  camels, 
its  veiled  women  and  dusky  men  ;  with  the  high  hare  walls 
of  a  mosque,  the  tapering  minaret,  some  lower  walls  of 
houses,  and  everywhere  a  profusion  of  palms  that  bounded 
the  further  side. 

"  Hillo,  Mr.  Ismat !  "  called  out  Colonel  Graham,  as  two 
gangs  of  villanous-looking  convicts,  all  chained  tcf  each 
other,  came  along  under  guard  of  a  couple  of  soldiers. 
*'  What  have  these  fellows  been  doing?  " 

"  They  are  prisoners,"  said  he,  carelessly.  "  They  have 
killed  somebody  or  stolen  something.  We  make  them  carry 
water." 

The  next  new  feature  was  a  company  of  soldiers,  in 
A'hite  tunics  and  trousers  and  red  tarbooshes,  who  marched 
quickly  along  to  the  shrill  sharp  music  of  bugles.  They 
disappeared  into  the  archway  of  a  large  square  building. 

"That  is  my  father's  house,"  explained  young  Ismat  to 
the  ladies.  "  He  looks  to  your  visit  with  great  pleasure. 
And  the  other  gentlemen  of  the  town,  they  are  there  also, 
and  the  chief  enojineer  of  the  district.  Your  comin^c  is  a 
great  honor  to  us." 

"  I  wish  I  knew  a  little  Arabic,"  said  Mrs.  Graham.  "  I 
am  sure  we  have  not  thanked  his  Excellency  half  enough 
for  his  kindness  in  lending  us  his  dahabeeyah." 

"Oh,  quite  enough,  quite  enough,"  said  tlie  polite  young 
Egyptian.  "  I  assure  you  it  is  nothing.  Though  it  is  a 
pity  my  father  does  not  understand  English,  and  not  much 
French  either.  He  has  been  very  busy  all  his  life,  and  not 
travelling.  The  other  gentlemen  speak  French,  like  most 
of  the  official  Egyptians." 

"  And  you,"  said  Mrs.  Graham,  regarding  him  Avith  her 
pretty  eyes,  "  do  you  speak  French  as  well  as  you  speak 
English?" 

"  My  English  ! "  he  said,  with  a  slight  shrug  of  his 
shoulders.  "  It  is  very  bad.  I  know  it  is  very,  very  bad. 
I  have  never  been  in  England ;  I  have  had  no  practice 
except  a  little  in  India.  But,  on  the  contrary,  I  have  lived 
three  years  in  Paris  ;  French  is  much  more  natural  to  me 
than  English." 

"  It  is  so  with  me  also,  Mr.  Ismat,"  said  Yolande,  a  trifle 
Bh}ly. 

'•  With  you  !  "  he  exclaimed. 


122  YOLANDE. 

"  I  have  lived  nearly  all  my  life  in  France.  But  your 
English,  that  you  spoke  of  is  not  in  the  least  bad.  It  is 
very  good — is  it  not  Mrs.  Graham  ?  " 

Nothing  further  could  be  said  on  that  point,  however 
for  they  were  just  escaping  from  the  glare  of  the  sun  into 
a  cool  high  archway;  and  from  that  they  passed  into  a 
wide,  open  courtyard,  where  the  guard  of  soldiers  they  had 
seen  enter  presented  arms.  Then  ihey  ascended  some 
steps,  and  finally  were  ushered  into  a  large  and  lofty  and 
barely  furnished  saloon,  where  the  Governor  and  the  notables 
of  Merhadj  received  them  with  much  serious  courtesy. 
But  this  interview,  as  it  turned  o.ut,  was  not  quite  so  solemn 
as  that  on  th(i  deck  of  the  dahabeeyah  ;  for,  after  what 
Ismat  Effendi  had  said  to  the  two  ladies  without,  it  was  but 
natural  that  the  conversation  should  be  conducted  in  French; 
and  so  the  colfee  and  cigarettes  which  were  brought  in  by 
two  young  lads  were  partaken  of  in  anything  but  silence. 
And  then,  as  little  groups  were  thus  formed,  and  as  Ismat's 
services  as  interpreter  were  not  in  such  constant  demand, 
he  somehow  came  to  devote  himself  to  the  two  ladies,  and  as 
Yolande  naturally  spoke  French  with  much  more  ease  and 
fluency  than  Mrs.  Graham,  to  her  he  chiefly  addressed  him- 
self. The  Master  of  Lynn  did  not  at  all  like  this  arrange- 
ment. He  was  silent  and  impatient.  He  regarded  this 
Frenchified  Arab,  who  seemed  to  consider  himself  so  fasci- 
nating, with  a  goodly  measure  of  robust  English  contempt. 
And  then  he  grew  angry  with  his  sister.  She  ought  not  to 
be,  and  she  ought  not  to  permit  Yolande  to  be,  so  familiar 
with  this  Egyptian  fellow.  Did  she  not  know  that  Egyptian 
ladies  studiously  kept  their  faces  concealed  ?  And  what 
must  he  be  thinking  of  these  two  English  ladies,  who 
laughed  and  chattered  in  this  free  and  easy  fashion  ? 

Then,  as  regarded  Yolande,  his  gratitude  for  the  great 
gift  she  had  given  him  was  still  full  in  his  mind,  and  he  was 
willing  to  make  every  excuse  for  her,  and  to  treat  her  with 
a  manly  forbearance  and  leniency  ;  but  at  the  same  time  he 
could  not  get  rid  of  a  certain  consciousness  that  she  did  not 
seem  to  recognize  as  she  ought  that  he  had  in  a  way,  a  right 
of  possession.  She  bore  herself  to  him  just  as  she  bore 
herself  to  the  others;  if  there  was  any  one  of  the  party 
whom  she  seemed  specially  to  favor  that  morning  as  they 
came  up  the  Nile,  it  was  Colonel  Graham,  who  did  nothing 
but  tease  her.  She  did  not  seem  to  think  there  was  any 
difference  between  yesterday  and  to-day,  whereas  yesterdav 


YOLANDE.  123 

she  was  free,  and  to  day  she  was  a  promised  bride.  How- 
ever, he  threw  most  of  the  blame  on  his  sister.  Polly  was 
always  trying  the  effect  of  her  eyes  on  somebody,  and  this 
Egyptian  was  as  good  as  another.  And  he  wondered  kow 
Graham  allowed  it. 

But  matters  grew  worse  when  this  ceremonious  interview 
was  over.     For  when   they  went  to  explore  the    narrow, 
twisting,  mud-paved,  and  apparently  endless  bazars  of  Mor- 
hadj,  where  there   was  scarcely  room  for  the  camels  and 
donkeys,  to  pass  without  bumping  them  against  the  walls  or 
shop  doors,  of  course  they  had  to  go  two  and  two ;  and  as 
young  Ismat  had  to  lead  the  way,  and  as  he  naturally  con- 
tinued to  talk  to  the  person  with  whom  he  had  been  talking 
within  it  fell  out  that  Yoland  and  he  were  the  first  paii-,  the 
otliers  following  as  they  pleased.     Once  or  twice  the  Master 
strugjuled  forward  throuofh  the  crowd  and  the  dust  and  the 
donkeys,  and  tried  to  detach  Yolande  from  her  companion  ; 
but  in  each  case  some  circumstance  happened  to  intervene, 
and  he  failed  ;  and  the  consequence   was  that,  bringing  up 
the  rear  with  Mr.  Winterbourne,  who   was  not  a  talkative 
person,  he  had  abundant  leisure  to  nurse  his  wrath  in  silence. 
And  he  felt  he  had  a  right  to  be  angry,  though  it  was  not 
perhaps  altogether  her  faith.      She  did  not  seem  to  under- 
stand that   there  were  relations  existing  between   engaged 
people  different  from  those  existing  between   others.      He 
had   acquired  a  certain  right :  so,  in    fact,   had  she ;  for  he 
put  it  to  hinaself  whether,  supposing  he  had  had  the  chance 
of  walking  through  those  miserable  little  streets  of  Merhadj 
with  the  prettiest  young  Englishwoman  who  ever  lived,  he 
would  have  deserted  Yolande  for  her  side.      No,  he  would 
not.      And  he  thought  that  he  ought  to  remonstrate;  and 
that  he  would  remonstrate ;  but  yet  in  a  kindly  way,  so  that 
no  offence  could  be  taken,      It  would  be  no  offence,  surely, 
to  beg  from  her  just  a  little  bit  more  of  her  favor. 

Meanwhile,  this  was  the  conversation  of  those  two  in 
front,  as  they  slowly  made  their  way  along  the  tortuous, 
catacomb  looking  throughfare,  with  its  dusky  little  shops, 
in  the  darkness  of  each  of  which  sat  the  merchant,  cross- 
legged,  and  gazing  impassively  out  from  under  his  large 
white  turban. 

"  What  is  it,  then,  you  wish?"  he  was  saying  to  her; 
and  he  spoke  in  French  that  was  much  more  idiomatic,  if 
not  any  more  fluent,  than  his  English.  "  Curiosities  ?  Brio- 
a-brac  'i  " 


124  YOLANDE. 

"  It  is  something  very  Eastern,  very  Egyptian,  that  I  conld 
send  to  the  ladies  at  the  Chateau  where  I  was  brought  up," 
she  said,  as  she  attentively  scanned  each  gloomy  recess. 
*'  And  also  I  would  like  to  buy  something  for  Mrs.  Graham — • 
a  little  present — I  know  not  what.  Also  for  my  papa.  Is 
there  nothing  very  strange — very  curious  !  " 

"  But,  alas  !  mademoiselle,"  said  he,  **  we  have  here  no 
manufactures.  Our  business  of  the  neighborhood  is  agri- 
culture. All  these  articles  in  the  bazar  are  from  Cairo;  we 
have  not  even  any  of  the  Assiout  pottery,  which  is  pretty 
and  curious,  but  perhaps  not  safe  to  carry  on  a  long  journey. 
The  silver  jewelry  is  all  from  Cairo  ;  those  silks  from  Cairo 
also ;  those  cottons  from  England." 

"  At  Cairo,  then,  one  could  purchase  some  things  truly 
Egyptian  ?" 

"  Certainly — certainly,  mademoiselle,  you  will  find  the 
bazars  at  Cairo  full  of  interest.  Ah,  I  wish  with  all  my  heart 
I  could  accompany  you !  " 

"  That  would  be  to  encroach  entirely  too  much  on  your 
goodness,"  said  she  with  a  pleasant  smile. 

•'  Not  at  all,"  said  he,  earnestly.  "  Ah,  no ;  not  at 
all.  It  is  so  charming  to  find  one's  self  for  a  time  in  new 
society ;  and  if  one  can  be  of  a  little  assistance,  that  is  so 
much  the  better.  There  is  also  something  I  would  speak  to 
monsieur  your  father  about  mademoiselle,  before  you  return 
to  the  dahabeeyah.  I  have  arranged  one  or  two  excursions 
for  you,  which  may  interest  you  perhaps  ;  and  the  necessary 
means  are  all  prepared  ;  and  1  think  it  might  be  of  advantage 
to  begin  these  at  once.  There  is  no  danger — no,  no  ;  there 
is  no  cause  for  any  alarm ;  but  always  of  late  the  political 
atmosphere  has  been  somewhat  disturbed ;  and  if  you  were 
at  Cairo  you  would  find  out  better  what  was  going  to  hap- 
pen then  we  ourselves  do  here.  TJien  as  you  have  said,  you 
would  wish  to  buy  some  things  ;  and  you  will  have  need  of 
plenty  of  time  to  go  through  the  bazars — " 

He  seemed  to  speak  with  a  little  caution  at  this  point. 

*'  I  have  heard  the  gentlemen  speak  of  it,"  said  she,  with 
no  great  concern,  for  she  was  far  from  being  a  nervous 
person  ;  "  but  they  seemed  to  think  there  was  no  danger." 

"  Danger  ?  No,  no,"  said  he.  "  For  you  there  can  be 
no  danger.  But  if  there  is  political  disquiet  and  disturbance, 
it  might  not  be  quite  agreeable  for  you  ;  and  that  is  all  I 
wish  to  say  to  monsieur  your  father,  that  he  would  have  the 
goodness  to  make  the  excursions  as  soon  as  possible,  and  so 


X  ULAN  DM,  125 

leave  more  time  for  judging  the  situation.  It  is  a  hint — it 
IS  a  suggestion — that  is  all." 

*'  I  am  sure  that  my  papa  and  Colonel  Graham  will  do 
whatever  you  think  best,"  said  she. 

*'  You  are  very  good,  mademoiselle.  I  wish  to  serve 
theni,"  said  he,  with  grave  courtesy. 

Well,  not  only  did  this  young  man — whether  intention- 
ally or  not  it  was  impossible  to  say — monopolize  Yolaude'e 
society  during  the  remainder  of  their  exploration  of  Mer- 
hadj,  but,  furthermore,  on  their  embarking  in  their  boat  to 
return,  he  accepted  an  invitation  to  dine  with  them  ♦hat 
same  evening;  and  the  Master  of  Lynn  was  determined 
that,  before  young  Ismat  j)ut  foot  on  board  thedahnbeeyali. 
Yolande  would  be  civilly  but  firmly  requested  to  amend 
her  ways.  It  was  all  very  well  for  his  sister,  who  was  a 
born  flirt,  to  go  about  making  great  friends  with  strangers ; 
and  it  was  all  very  well  for  Colonel  Graham,  who  was  too 
lazy  to  care  about  anything,  to  look  on  witli  good-humored 
indift'erence.  But  already  this  audacious  youth  had  begun 
to  pose  Yolande  as  an  exalted  being.  She  knew  nothing 
about  garrison  life  in  India. 

He  had  very  considerable  difficulty  in  obtaining  a  pri- 
vate conversation  with  Yolande,  for  life  on  board  the 
dahabeeyah  was  distinctly  public  and  social ;  but  late  on  in 
the  afternoon  he  succeeded. 

''  So,  Yolande,"  said  he,  with  an  artful  carelessness, 
"  this  has  been  the  first  day  of  our  engagement." 

"  Oh  yes,"  said  she,  looking  up  in  a  pleasant  way. 

"  We  haven't  seen  much  of  each  other,"  he  suggested. 

"  Ah,  no  ;  it  has  been  such  a  busy  day.  How  much 
nicer  is  the  quiet  here,  is  it  not?  " 

*'  But  you  seemed  to  find  Ismat  Effendi  sufficiently 
amusing,"  he  said,  somewhat  coldly. 

"  Oh  yes,"  she  answered,  quite  frankly.  "  And  so 
clever  and  intelligent.  I  hope  we  shall  see  him  when  he 
comes  to  England." 

"  I  thought,"  said  he,  "that  in  France  young  ladies  were 
brought  up  to  be  rather  reserved — that  they  were  not  suj)- 
posed  to  become  so  friendly  with  chance  acquaintances." 

Perhaps  there  was  something  in  tiie  tone  that  caused  her 
to  look  up,  this  time  rather  seriously. 

"  I  should  not  call  him  a  chance  acquaintance,"  slu-  said, 
•lowly.     "He  is  the  frieudof  Colonel  Graham,  and  of  p.ipa, 


126  YOLANDE. 

and  of  yourself."  And  then  she  added,  speaking  still  s^lowly 
and  still  regarding  him,  "  Did  you  tliink  I  was  not  enough 
reserved  ?  " 

Well,  there  was  a  kind  of  obedience  in  her  mannew — a 
sort  of  biddableness  in  her  eyes — that  entirely  took  the 
wind  out  of  the  sails  of  his  intended  reproof. 

"You  see,  Yobinde,"  said  he,  in  a  much  more  frienrlly 
way,  "  perhaps  it  was  mere  bad  luck  ;  but  after  getting 
engaged  only  last  night,  you  may  imagine  I  wanted  to  see  a 
little  of  you  to-day ;  and  you  can't  suppose  that  I  quite 
liked  that  Egyptian  fellow  monopolizing  you  the  whole  time. 
Of  course  I  am  not  jealous — and  not  jealous  of  that  fellow  ! 
— for  jealousy  implies  suspicion  ;  and  I  know  you  too  well. 
But  perhaps  you  don't  quite  understand  that  people  who 
are  engaged  have  a  little  claim  on  each  other,  and  ex})eet  to 
be  treated  with  a  little  more  intimacy  and  friendliness 
than  as  if  they  were  outsiders." 

"  Oh  yes,  I  understand,"  she  said,  with  her  eyes  cast 
down. 

"  Of  course  I  am  not  complaining,"  he  continued,  in  the 
most  amiable  way.  "  It  would  be  a  curious  thing  if  I  were 
to  begin  to  complain  now,  after  what  you  said  last  niglit. 
But  you  can't  wonder  if  I  am  anxious  to  have  nil  your 
kindness  to  myself,  and  that  I  should  like  you  and  me  to 
have  different  relations  between  ourselves  than  those  we 
have  with  other  people.  An  engagement  means  giving  up 
something  on  both  sides,  I  suppose.  Do  you  think  I  sliould 
like  to  see  you  waltzing  with  any  one  else  now?  It  isn't 
in  human  nature  that  I  should  like  it." 

"  Then  I  will  not  waltz  with  any  one,"  she  said,  still 
looking  down. 

"And  I  don't  think  you  will  find  me  a  tyrannous  sort  of 
person,  Yolande,"  said  he  with  a  smile,  "  even  if  you  were 
inclined  to  make  an  engagement  a  much  more  serious 
matter  than  you  seem  to  consider  it.  It  is  more  likely  you 
who  will 'prove  the  tyrant;  for  you  have  your  own  way 
with  everybody,  and  why  not  with  me  too?  And  I  hope 
you  understand  why  I  spoke,  don't  you?  You  don't  think 
it  unkind  ?  " 

"  Oh  no,  I  quite  understand,"  she  said,  in  the  same  lov?- 
voice. 

Isniat  Effendi  came  to  dinner,  as  he  had  promised.  She 
gpoke  scarcely  a  word  to  him  the  whole  evening. 

V 


YOLA/VDE.  127 


CHAPTER  XVIL 

A    CHAT   IN    THE   DESEKT. 


**  Akciiie,"  said  his  sister,  on  one  occasion,  in  rather  a 
significant  tone,  "  you  will  have  some  trouble  with  papa." 

They  were  on  their  Avay  to  visit  a  convent  some  few 
miles  inland,  and  the  only  thing  that  varied  the  monotony 
of  the  journey  was  the  occasional  stumbling  of  the  wretched 
animals  they  rode.  He  glanced  round  to  see  that  the  others 
were  far  enough  off,  then  he  said,  either  carelessly  or  with 
an  affectation  of  carelessness, — 

*'  I  dare  say.  Oh  yes,  I  have  no  doubt  of  it.  But  there 
would  have  been  a  row  in  any  case,  so  it  does  not  matter 
much.  If  I  had  brought  home  the  daughter  of  an  arch- 
angel he  would  have  growled  and  grumbled.  He  gave 
you  a  ])rotty  warm  time  of  it,  Polly,  before  he  let  you  marry 
Graham." 

And  then  he  said,  with  more  vehemence, — 

''Hang  it  all,  my  father  doesn't  understand  the  con- 
dition of  things  nowadays  !  The  peerage  isn't  sacred  any 
longer ;  you  can't  expect  people  to  keep  on  intermarrying 
and  intermarrying,  just  to  please  Burke.  We  can  show  a 
pretty  good  list,  you  know,  and  I  wouldn't  add  any  name 
to  it  that  would  disgrace  it ;  but  that  craze  of  my  father's 
is  all  nonsense.  Why,  the  only  place  nowadays  where  a 
lord  is  worshipped  and  glorified  is  the  United  States;  that's 
where  I  should  have  gone  if  I  had  wanted  to  marry  for 
money  ;  I  dare  say  they  would  have  found  out  that  sooner 
or  later  I  should  succeed  to  a  peerage.  Of  course  my 
father  is  treated  with  great  respect  when  he  goes  to  attend 
meetings  at  Inverness  ;  and  the  keepers  and  gillies  think  lie- 
is  the  greatest  man  in  the  kingdom ;  but  what  would  he  be 
in  London  ?  Why,  there  you  find  governing  England  a 
commoner,  whose  family  made  their  money  in  business ; 
and  under  him — and  glad  enough  to  take  office  too — noble- 
men whose  names  are  as  old  as  the  history  of  England — " 

His  sister  interrupted  hirn. 

"My  dear  Master,"  said  she,  "please  remember  tliat 
because  a  girl  is  pretty,  her  father's  politics  are  not  neces 


128  YOLANDE. 

sarily  right.  If  you  have  imbibed  those  frightful  seati- 
meuts  from  Mr.  Winterbourne,  for  goodness'  sake  say 
nothing  about  them  at  the  Towers.  The  matter  will  be 
difficult  enough  without  that.  You  see,  with  anybody 
else,  it  might  be  practicable  to  shelve  politics,  but  Mr.  Win- 
terbourne's  views  and  opinions  are  too  widely  known  ;  and 
you  will  have  quite  enough  difficulty  in  getting  papa  to  re- 
ceive Mr.  Winterbourne  with  decent  civillity,  uathout  your 
talking  any  wild  Radicalism  in  that  way." 

"  Radicalism  ?"  said  he.  "  It  is  not  Radicalism.  It  is 
common-sense,  which  is  just  the  reverse  of  Radicalism. 
However,  what  I  have  resolved  on  is  this,  Polly  :  his  lord- 
ship shall  remain  in  complete  ignorance  of  the  whole  affair 
until  Yolande  goes  to  Allt-nam-Ba.  Then  he  will  see  her. 
That  ought  to  do  something  to  smooth  the  way.  There  is 
another  thing,  too.  Winterbourne  has  taken  Allt-nam-Ba, 
and  my  father  ought  to  be  well  disposed  to  him  on  that  ac- 
count alone." 

"  Because  a  gentleman  rents  a  shooting  from  you  for 
one  year — " 

•'  But  why  one  year  ?  "  he  interposed,  quickly.  "  Why 
shouldn't  Winterbourne  take  a  lease  of  it?  He  can  well 
afford  it.  And  with  Yolande  living  up  there,  of  course  he 
would  like  to  come  and  see  her  sometimes ;  and  Allt-nam- 
Ba  is  just  the  place  for  a  man  to  bring  a  bachelor  friend  or 
two  with  him  from  London.  He  can  well  afford  it.  It  is 
his  only  amusement.  It  would  be  a  good  arrangement  for 
me  too ;  for  I  could  lend  him  a  hand  ;  and  the  moor  wants 
hard  shooting,  else  we  shall  be  having  the  disease  back 
again  some  fine  day.  Then  we  should  cuntinue  to  let  the 
forest." 

"  And  where  are  you  and  Yolande  going  to  live,  then  ?  " 
said  his  sister,  regarding  him  with  a  curious  look.  *'Are 
you  going  to  install  her  as  mistress  of  tlie  Towers?" 

"Take  her  to  Lynn!"  he  said,  with  a  scornful  laugh. 
"  Yes,  I  should  think  so !  Cage  her  up  with  that  old  cat, 
indeed !" 

"  She  is  my  aunt  as  well  as  yours,  and  I  will  not  have 
her  spoken  of  like  that,"  said  Mrs.  Graham,  sharply. 

*'  She  is  my  aunt,"  said  this  young  man  ;  "  and  she  is 
yours  ;  and  she  is  an  old  cat  as  well.  Never  mind,  Polly. 
You  will  see  such  things  at  Lynn  as  your  small  head  never 
dreamed  of.  The  place  has  just  been  starved  for  want  ol 
money.  You  must  see  that  when   you  think  of  Invcrstroy; 


YOLANDE.  129 

look  how  well  everything  is  done  there.  And  then,  when 
you  consider  how  we  have  been  working  to  pay  off  scores 
run  up  by  other  people — that  seems  rather  hard,  doesn't  it  ?  ' 
"  I  don't  think  so — I  don't  tliink  so  at  all!"  his  sister 
said,  promptly.  "  Our  family  may  have  made  mistakes 
in  politics ;  but  that  was  better  tlian  always  truckling  to 
the  winning  side.  We  have  nothing  to  be  ashamed  of.  And 
you  ought  to  be  very  glad  that  so  much  of  the  land  remains 
ours," 

*'  Well,  you  will  see  what  can  be  made  of  it,"  her 
brother  said,  confidently.  "  I  don't  regret  now  the  long 
struggle  to  keep  the  place  together  \  and  once  we  get  back 
Corrievreak,  we'll  have  the  watershed  for  the  march 
again.'* 

His  face  brightened  up  at  this  prospect. 
"  That  will  be  sometiiing,  Polly  ? "  he  said,  gayly. 
"What  a  view  there  is  from  the  tops  all  along  that  march  ! 
You've  got  the  whole  of  Inverness-shire  spread  out  around 
yon  like  a  map.  I  think  it  was  £8000  my  grandfather  got 
for  Corrievreak  ;  but  I  suppose  Sir  John  will  want  £15,000. 
I  know  he  is  ready  to  part  with  it,  for  it  is  of  little  use  to 
him ;  it  does  not  lie  well  with  his  forest.  But  if  we  had  \\ 
back — and  with  the  sheep  taken  off  Allt-nara-Ba — " 

"  Jim  says  you  ought  to  make  Corrievreak  \c^t, 
sanctuary,"  his  sister  remarked ;  and  indeed  she  seemed 
quite  as  much  interested  as  he  in  these  joyful  forecasts. 
"  Why,  of  course.  There  couldn't  be  a  better — " 
"  And  I  was  saying  that  if  you  planted  the  Rushen 
slopes,  and  built  a  good  large  comfortable  lodge  there,  you 
would  get  a  far  better  rent  for  the  forest,  You  know  it 
isn't  like  the  old  days,  Archie  :  the  people  who  come  from 
the  south  now,  come  because  it  is  the  fashion  ;  and  they 
must  have  a  fine  house  for  their  friends — " 

"  Yes,  and  hot  luncheons  sent  up  the  hill,  with  cham- 
pagne glasses  and  table  napkins  1 "  said  he.  "No  more 
biscuits  and  a  flask  to  last  you  from  morning  till  night. 
The  next  thing  will  be  a  portable  dining-table  that  can  be 
taken  up  into  one  of  the  corries  ;  and  then  they  will  have 
finger-glasses,  I  suppose,  after  lunch.  No  matter.  For 
there  is  another  thing,  my  sweet  Mrs.  Graham,  that  per- 
haps you  have  not  considered  :  it  may  come  to  pass  that,  as 
time  goes  on,  we  may  not  have  to  let  the  forest  at  all. 
That  would  be  much  better  than  being  indebted  to  your 
tenant  for  a  day's  stalking  in   your  own  forest." 


130  YOLANDE. 

And  then  it  seemed  to  strike  him  that  all  this  planning 
and  arranging — on  the  basis  of  Yolande's  fortune — sounded 
just  a  little  bit  mercenary. 

"  To  hear  us  talking  like  this,"  said  he,  with  a  laugh, 
"  any  one  would  imagine  that  I  was  marrying  in  order  to 
improve  the  Lynn  estate.  Well,  we  haven't  quite  come  to 
that  yet,  I  hope.  If  it  were  merely  a  question  of  money,  I 
could  have  gone  to  America,  as  I  said.  That  would  have 
been  the  market  for  the  only  kind  of  goods  I've  got  to  sell. 
No.  I  don't  think  any  one  can  bring  that  against  me." 

"  I,  for  one,  would  not  think  of  accusing  you  of  any 
such  things,"  said  his  sister,  warmly.  "  I  hope  you  would 
have  more  pride.  Jim  was  poor  enough  when  I  married 
him." 

"Now  if  I  were  marrying  for  money,"  said  he  — and  he 
seemed  eager  to  rebut  this  charge — "  I  would  have  no  scru- 
ples at  all  about  asking  Yolande  to  go  and  live  at  Lynn.  Of 
course  it  would  be  a  very  economical  arrangement.  But 
would  I  ?  I  should  think  not.  I  wouldn't  have  her  shuli 
up  there  for  anything.  But  I  hope  she  will  like  the  house, 
as  a  visitor,  and  get  on  well  with  my  father  and  my  aunt. 
Don't  you  think  she  will  produce  a  good  impression? 
What  I  hope  for  most  of  all  is  that  Jack  Melville  may  take 
a  fancy  to  her.  That  would  settle  it  in  a  minute,  you  know. 
Whatever  Melville  approves,  that  is  right — at  the  Towei-g 
or  anywhere  else.  It's  his  cheek,  you  know.  He  believes 
in  himself,  and  everybody  else  believes  in  him.  It  isn't 
only  at  Gress  that  he  is  the  dominie.  *  He  is  a  scholar  and 
a  gentleman' — that  is  my  beloved  auntie's  pet  phrase,  as  if 
his  going  to  Oxford  on  the  strength  of  the  Ferguson  scholar- 
ship made  him  an  authority  ou  the  right  construction  of  a 
salmon  ladder." 

"  Is  that  the  way  you  speak  of  your  friends  behind  their 

*'  Well,  he  jumps  upon  me  considerably,"  said  he,  frankly : 
"  and  I  may  as  well  take  it  out  of  him  when  he  is  at  Gress 
and  I  am  in  Egypt.  No  matter.  If  he  takes  a  fancy  to 
Yolande  it  will  be  all  right.  That  is  how  they  do  with 
cigars  and  wines  in  London — '  specially  selected  and  ap- 
proved by  Messrs.  So-and-so.'  It  is  a  guarantee  of  genuine 
quality.  And  so  it  will  be  *  Yolande  Winterbourne,  ap- 
proved by  Jack  Melville,  of  Monaglen,  and  forwarded  on  to 
Lynn  Towers,'  ' 

"  If  that  is  all,  that  can  be  easily  managed."  said  Mj! 


I 


YOLANDE.  131 

sister,  cheerfully.  "  When  she  is  with  us  at  Inverstroy  we 
will  take  her  over  to  call  on  Mrs.  Bell." 

"  I  know  what  Mrs.  Bell  wil\  call  her — I  know  the  very 
phrase  :  she  will  say,  'She  is  a  bonnie  doo,  that.'  The  old 
lady  is  rather  proud  of  the  Scotch  she  picked  up  in  the 
south.'* 

"  She  ought  to  be  prouder  of  the  plunder  she  picked  \\y) 
further  south  still.  She  '  drew  up  wi'  glaiket  Englishers  at 
Carlisle  Ila' '  to  some  purpose." 

"  Yes  ;  and  Jack  Melville  will  have  every  penny  of  it ; 
and  a  good  solid  nest-egg  it  must  be  by  this  time.  I  am 
certain  the  old  lady  has  an  eye  on  Monaglen.  What  an 
odd  thing  it  would  be  if  Melville  were  to  have  Monaglen 
handed  over  to  him  just  as  we  were  getting  back  Cor- 
rievreak  !  I  think  there  are  some  curious  changes  in  store  in 
that  part  of  the  world." 

At  this  point  Mrs.  Graham  pulled  up  her  sorry  steed, 
and  waited  until  the  rest  of  the  cavalcade  came  along. 

"  Yolande  dear,"  said  she,  in  a  tone  of  remonstrance, 
"  Wliy  don't  you  come  on  in  front,  and  get  less  of  the  dust  ?  '* 

Yolande  did  as  she  was  bid. 

"  I  have  been  so  much  interested,"  said  she,  brightly. 
"  What  a  chance  it  is  to  learn  about  Afghanistan  and 
Russia — from  one  who  knows,  as  Colonel  Graham  does! 
You  read  and  read  in  Parliament;  but  they  all  contradict  each 
other.     And  Colonel  Graham  is  quite  of  my  papa's  opinion." 

"  Well,  now,  the  stupidity  of  it !  "  said  pretty  Mrs. 
Graham,  with  an  affected  petulance.  "  You  people  have 
been  talking  away  about  Afghanistan,  and  Archie  and  I 
have  been  talking  away  about  the  Highlands — in  the  African 
desert.  What  is  the  use  of  it  ?  We  ought  to  talk  about 
what  is  around  us." 

"  I  propose,"  said  the  Master  of  Lynn.  "  that  Yolande 
gives  us  a  lecture  on  the  antiquities  of  Karnac." 

"'  Do  you  know,  then,  that  I  could  ?  "  said  she.  ''  But 
not  this  Karnac.  No  ;  the  one  in  Brittany.  I  lived  near  it 
at  Auray,  for  a  long  time,  before  I  was  taken  to  the 
Chateau." 

"  My  dear  Yolande."  exclaimed  Mrs.  Graham,  ''  if  you 
will  tell  us  about  yourself,  and  your  early  life  and  all  that, 
we  will  pack  off  all  the  mummies  and  tombs  and  pillars 
that  ever  existed." 

*'  But  there  is  no  story  at  all,  except  a  sad  one,"  said 
the  girl.     "  My  uncle  was  a  French  gentleman — ah,  so  kind 


132  YOLANDE. 

he  was ! — and  one  day  in  the  winter  he  was  shot  in  the 
woods  when  he  and  the  other  gentlemen  were  out.  Oh,  it 
must  have  been  tei-rible  when  they  brought  him  home — not 
quite  dead  !  But  they  did  not  tell  me ;  and  perhaps  I  was  too 
young  to  experience  all  the  misery.  But  it  killed  my  aunt, 
who  had  taken  me  away  from  England  when  my  motlier 
died.  She  would  not  see  any  one ;  she  shut  herself  up  ; 
then  one  morning  she  was  found  dead  ;  and  then  they  sent 
for  ray  father,  and  he  took  me  to  the  ladies  at  the  Chateau. 
That  is  all.  Perhaps  if  I  had  been  older  I  should  have  un- 
derstood it  more,  and  been  more  grieved ;  but  now,  when  I 
look  back  at  Auray  and  our  living  there,  I  think  mostly  of 
the  long  drives  with  my  aunt,  when  my  uncle  was  away  nt 
the  chase,  and  often  and  often  we  drove  along  the  peninsula 
of  Quiberon,  which  not  every  one  visits.  And  was  it  a 
challenge,  then,"  she  added,  in  a  brighter  way,  "  about  a 
lecture  on  Karnac  ?  Oh,  I  can  give  you  one  very  easily. 
For  I  have  read  all  the  books  about  it,  and  I  can  give  yoa 
all  the  theories  about  it,  each  of  which  is  perfectly  self- 
evident,  and  all  of  them  quite  contradictory,  Shall  I  be- 
gin ?     It  was  a  challenge.'* 

"  No,  Yolande,  I  would  far  rather  hear  your  own  theory," 
said  he,  gallantly. 

"  Mine  ?  I  have  not  the  vanity."  she  said,  lighty.  "  But 
this  is  what  all  the  writers  do  not  know,  that  besides  the 
long  rows  of  stones  in  the  open  plains — oh,  hundreds  and 
thousands,  so  thick  that  all  the  farmhouses  and  the  stone 
walls  have  been  built  of  them  besides  these,  all  through  the 
woods,  wherever  you  go,  you  come  uj^on  separate  dolmens, 
sometimes  alniost  covered  over.  My  aunt  and  I  used  to 
stop  the  carriage,  and  go  wandering  through  the  woods  in 
search ;  and  always  we  thought  these  were  the  graves  of 
pious  people  who  wished  to  be  buried  in  a  sacred  place — 
near  where  the  priests  were  sacrificing  in  the  plain — and 
perhaps  that  their  friends  had  brought  their  bodies  from 
some  distant  land." 

"  Just  as  the  Irish  kings  were  carried  to  lona  to  bo 
buried,"  said  the  Master. 

'^  But,  Yolande  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Graham,  who  was  more 
interested  in  the  story  of  Yolande's  yoijth  than  in  Celtic 
monuments,  **  how  did  you  come  to  keep,  up  your  English, 
since  you  have  lived  all  your  life  in  France  ?  " 

'*But  my  aunt  spoke  English,  naturally,"  said  she. 
"Then  at  the  Chateau  one  of  the  ladies  also  spoke  it — oh,  I 


YOLANDE.  133 

assure  you,  there  was  no  European  language  she  did  not 
speak,  nor  any  country  she  did  not  know,  for  she  had  been 
travel  ling  companion  to  a  noble  lady.  And  always  her 
belief  was  that  you  must  learn  Latin  as  the   first  key." 

"  Then  did  you  learn  Latin,  Yolande  ?  "  the  Master  of 
Lynn  inquired,  with  some  vague  impression  that  the  ques- 
tion was  jocular,  for  Yolande  had  not  revealed  any  traces 
of  erudition. 

''  If  you  will  examine  me  in  Virgil,  1  think  I  shall  pass," 
said  tihe;  "but  in  Horace — not  at  all.  It  is  distressing 
the  way  lie  twists  the  meaning  about  the  little  short  lines,  and 
hides  it  away  ;  I  never  had  patience  enough  for  him.  Ah, 
there  is  one  who  does  not  hide  his  meaning,  there  is  one  who 
can  write  the  line  that  goes  straight  and  sounding  and 
majestic.  You  have  not  to  puzzle  over  the  meaning  when 
it  is  Victer  Hugo  who  recounts  to  you  the  story  of 
Ruy  Blas^  of  Cromwell^  of  Angela,  of  ITernani.  That  is 
not  the  poetry  that  is  made  with  needles." 

Mrs.  Graham  was  scarcely  prepared  for  this  declaration 
of  faith. 

"  My  dear  Yolande,"  said  she,  cautiously,  "  Victor 
Hugo's  dramas  are  very  fine ;  but  I  would  not  call  them 
meat  for  babes.     At  the  Chateau,  now — " 

"  Oil,  they  were  strictly  forbidden,"  she  said,  frankly. 
"Madame  would  have  stormed  if  she  had  known.  But  we 
read  them  all  the  same.  Why  not  ?  What  is  the  harm  ? 
Every  one  knows  that  there  is  crime  and  wrong  in  the 
world  ;  why  should  one  shut  one's  eyes? — that  is  folly.  Is 
it  not  better  to  be  indignant  that  there  should  be  such  crime 
and  wrong?  If  there  is  any  one  who  takes  harm  from  such 
writing,  he  must  be  a  strange  person." 

"  At  all  events,  Yolande,"  said  he,  "  I  hope  you  don't 
think  that  all  kings  are  scoundrels,  and  all  convicts  angels 
of  light !  Victor  Hugo  is  all  very  well,  and  he  thundei-s 
along  in  fine  style  ;  but  don't  you  think  he  comes  awfully 
near  being  ridiculous  ?  lie  hasn't  much  notion  of  a  joke, 
has  he?  Don't  you  think  he  is  rather  too  portentously 
solemn  ?  " 

Well,  this  inquiry  into  Yolande's  0])inions  and  exper- 
iences— which  was  intensely  interesting  to  him,  and  natu- 
rally 80 — was  eliciting  some  odd  revelations;  for  it  now 
appeared  that  she  had  arrived  at  the  conclusion  that  the 
French,  as  a  nation,  were  a  serious  and  sombre  peo})le. 

"  Do  you  not  think  so  ?  "  she  said,  with  wide  eyes.  "  Oh, 


134  YOLANDE. 

[  have  found  them  so  grave.  The  poor  people  in  tlie  fields, 
when  you  speak  to  them  and  they  answer,  it  is  always  with 
a  sigh ;  they  look  sad  and  tired  ;  the  care  of  work  lies  heavi- 
ly on  them.  And  at  the  Chateau,  also,  everything  was  so 
serious  and  formal;  and  when  we  paidVisits  there  was  none 
of  the  freedom,  the  amusement,  the  good-humor,  of  the  En- 
Eflish  house.  Sometimes,  indeed,  at  Oatlands,  at  Weybridge, 
and  once  or  twice  in  London,  when  my  papa  has  taken  me 
to  visit,  I  have  thought  the  mamma  a  little  blunt  in  her 
frankness — in  the  expectation  you  would  find  yourself  at 
home  without  any  trouble  on  her  part ;  but  the  daughters — 
oh,  they  were  always  very  kind,  and  then  so  full  of  interest, 
about  boating,  or  tennis,  or  something  like  that — always  so 
full  of  spirits,  and  cheerful — no,  it  was  not  in  the  least  like 
a  visit  to  a  French  family.  In  France,  how  many  years  is 
it  before  you  become  friends  with  a  neighbor?  In  England, 
if  you  are  among  nice  people,  it  is — to-morrow.  You,  dear, 
Mrs.  Graham,  when  you  came  to  Oatlands,  what  did  you 
know  about  me  ?    Nothing." 

"  Bless  the  child,  had  I  not  my  eyes  ?  "  Mrs.  Graham  ex- 
claimed. 

"  But  before  two  or  three  days  you  were  calling  me  by 
my  Christian  name." 

"  Indeed  I  did,"  said  Mrs.  Graham  ;  "  if  it  is  a  Christian 
name,  which  I  doubt.  But  this  I  may  suggest  to  you,  my 
dear  Yolande,  that  you  don't  pay  me  a  compliment,  after 
the  friendsliip  you  speak  of,  and  the  relationship  we  are  all 
hoping  for,  in  calling  me  by  my  married  name.  The  name 
of  Polly  is  not  very  romantic — " 

"  Oh,  dear  Mrs.  Graham,  I  couldn't !  "  said  Yolande, 
almost  in  affright. 

*'  Of  course  not,"  said  the  pretty  young  matron,  with 
one  of  her  most  charming  smiles.  "  Of  course  you  couldn't 
be  guilty  of  such  familiarity  with  one  of  my  advanced 
age.  But  I  suppose  Jim  is  right;  I  am  getting  old.  Only 
he  doesn't  seem  to  consider  that  a  reason  for  treating  me 
with  any  increasing  respect." 

''  I  am  sure  I  never  thought  of  such  a  thing,"  Yolande 
protested,  almost  in  a  voice  of  entreaty.  "  How  could  yon 
imagine  it  ?  " 

"  Very  well.  But  if  you  consider  that  '  Polly  '  is  not  in 
accordance  with  my  age  or  my  serious  character  as  a 
mother  and  a  wife,  there  is  ft  compromise  in  '  Mary,' 
which  indeed,  was  my  proper   name   until  1  fell  into  tn« 


YOLANDE.  135 

hands  of  men.  I  used  always  to  be  called  Mary,  until 
Archie  and  Jim  bescan  with  their  impertinence.  And  when 
we  are  in  the  Highlands  together,  you  know,  and  you  are 
Htaying  with  us  at  Inverstroy,  or  we  are  visiting  you  at 
Allt-nam-Ba,  orwhen  we  are  all  together  at  the  Towers, 
whatever  would  the  people  think  if  they  heard  you  call 
me  'Mrs.  Graham?'  They  would  think  we  had  quarrelled." 

"Then  you  are  to  be  my  sister  Mary?"  said  Yolande, 
placidly ;  but  the  Master  of  Lynn  flushed  with  pleasure 
when  he    heard  that  phrase. 

''  And  I  will  be  your  champion  and  protectress  when 
you  come  into  our  savage  wilds  in  a  way  you  can't  dream 
of,"  continued  pretty  Mrs.  Graham.  "  You  don't  know 
how  we  staud  by  each  other  in  the  highlands.  We  stand  up 
for  our  own ;  and  you  will  be  one  of  us  in  jj;ood  time,  And 
you  haven't  the  least  idea  wliat  a  desperate  person  I  am 
when  my  temper  is  up — though  Jim  would,  tell  you  he 
Knows.  Well,  now,  I  suppose  that  is  the  convent  over 
there,  behind  those  palms  ;  and  we  have  been  chattering 
the  whole  way  about  the  Highlands,  and  Victor  Hugo,  and 
I  don't  know  what;  and  I  haven't  the  least  idea  what  we 
are  going  to  see  or  what  we  have  to  do." 

But  here  the  dragoman  came  up  to  assume  the  leader- 
ship of  the  party,  and  the  Master  of  Lynn  allowed  himself 
to  be  eclipsed.  He  was  not  sorry.  He  was  interested  far 
less  in  the  things  around  him  than  in  the  glimpses  he  had 
just  got  of  Yolande's  earlier  years;  and  he  was  trying  to 
place  these  one  after  another,  to  make  a  connected  picture 
of  her  life  up  till  the  time  that  this  journey  brought  him 
and  her  together.  Could  anything  be  more  preoccupying 
than  this  study  of  the  companion  who  was  to  be  with  him 
through  all  the  long  future  time  ?  And  already  she  wa« 
related  to  him  ;  she  had  chosen  his  sister  to  be  hers. 


CHAPTER  XVIII. 

A  PUKASE. 


But  these  idle  wanderings  of  theirs  in  Upper  Egypt 
were  destined  to  come  to  a  sudden  end.  One  evening  they 
were  coming  down  the  river,  and  were  about  to  pass 
Merhad],  when  they  saw  young  Ismat  Effendi  putting  off 


136  YOLANDE. 

in  another  boat,  evidently  with  the  intention  of  intercepting 
them.  They  immediately  ordered  their  boat  to  be  pulled  in 
to  the  shore  ;  and  as  Ismat  said  he  wanted  to  say  something 
to  thorn,  they  stepped  on  board  his  father's  dahabeeyah, 
nnd  went  into  the  saloon,  for  the  sake  of  coolness. 

Then  the  bright-faced  young  Egyptian,  who  seemed  at 
oTir*e  excited  and  embarrassed,  told  them,  in  his  fluent  ?ind 
oddly  phrased  English,  that  he  was  much  alarmed,  and 
iliat  his  alarm  was  not  on  account  of  any  danger  that 
might  happen  to  them,  but  was  the  fear  that  they  might 
think  him  discourteous  and  inhospitable. 

"  Who  could  think  that  ? "  said  pretty  Mrs.  jSraham, 
in  her  sweetest  way. 

"Of  course  not.  What's  the  matter?*'  said  her 
husband,  more  bluntly. 

Then  young  Ismat  proceeded  to  explain  that  the  latest 
news  from  the  capital  was  not  satisfactory ;  that  many 
Europeans  were  leaving  the  country ;  that  the  reports  in 
the  journals  were  very  contradictory ;  and  that,  in  short, 
no  one  seemed  to  know  what  might  not  happen.  And 
then  he  went  on  to  implore  them,  if  he  Suggested  that  they 
ought  to  return  to  Cairo,  and  satisfy  themselves  of  their 
safety  by  going  to  the  English  Consulate  there,  not  to 
imagine  that  he  wished  them  to  shorten  their  visit,  or  that 
his  father  desired  to  dispossess  them  of  the  dahabeeyah. 
"  How  could  that  be,"  he  said,  quite  anxiously,  "  when 
here  was  another  dahabeeyah  lying  idle  ?  No ;  the  other 
dahabeeyah  was  wholly  at  their  service  for  as  long  as  they 
chose  ;  and  it  would  be  a  great  honor  to  his  father,  and  the 
highest  happiness  to  himself,  if  they  were  to  remain  at 
Merhadj  for  the  longest  period  they  could  command;  but 
was  he  not  bound,  especially  when  there  were  two  ladies 
with  them,  to  let  them  know  what  he  had  heard,  and  give 
them  counsel?  " 

*'  My  dear  fellow,  we  understand  perfectly,"  said  Colonel 
Graham,  with  his  accustomed  good-humor.  "  And  much 
obliged  for  the  hint.  Fact  is,  I  think  we  ought  to  get  back 
to  Cairo  in  any  case  ;  for  these  women-folk  want  to  have  a 
turn  at  the  bazars,  and  by  the  time  they  have  half  ruined 
us,  we  shall  just  be  able  to  get  along  to  Suez  to  catch  the 
Ganges — " 

"  We  must  have  plenty  of  time  in  Cairo,  "  said  Mrs. 
Graham,  emphatically. 

'*  Oh   yes,"   said  he.     "  Never   mind   the  ganger.     Let 


YOLANDE.        f/Lj^  137 


them  bny  silver  necklaces,  and  they   wr^'^^hced    anythim 
else.     Very  well,  Mr.  Ismat,  come  along^^lt^  sa^,  now  an( 
have  some  dinner,  and  we  can  talk  things  oi^^^Jflrj^   i^liall 
just  be  in  time." 

"May  I?"  said  the  young  Egj^ptian  to  Mrs.  Graliam. 
"  I  am  not  intruding  ?  " 

'*  We  shall  be  delighted  if  you  will  come  with  us,"  said 
she,  with  one  of  her  most  gracious  smiles. 

"  It  will  not  be  pleasant  for  me  when  you  go,"  said  he. 
"  There  is  not  much  society  here."  * 

"  Nor  will  you  find  much  society  when  you  come  to  see 
us  at  Inverstroy,  Mr.  Ismat,"  she  answered."  But  we  will 
make  up  for  that  by  giving  you  a  true  Highland  welcome : 
shall  we  not,  Yolande  dear  ?  " 

Yolande  was  not  in  the  least  embarrassed.  She  had  quite 
grown  accustomed  to  consider  the  Highlands  as  her  future 
home. 

"I  hope  so,"  she  said,  simply.  "We  are  not  likely  to 
forget  the  kindness  Mr.  Ismat  has  shown  to  us." 

"  Oh,  mademoiselle  !  "  said  he. 

Now  this  resolve  to  go  back  to  Cairo,  and  to  get  along 
from  thence  in  time  to  catch  the  P.  and  O.  steamer  Ganges 
at  Suez,  was  hailed  with  satisfaction  by  each  member  of  the 
little  party,  though  for  very  different  reasons.  Mr.  Win- 
terbourne  was  anxious  to  be  at  St.  Stephen's  before  the 
Budget ;  and  he  could  look  forward  to  giving  uninterrupted 
attention  to  liis  Parliamentry  duties,  for  Yolande  was  going 
on  to  Investroy  with  the  Grahams.  Yolande  herself  was  glad 
to  think  that  soon  she  would  be  installed  as  house-mistress 
at  Allt-nam-Ba ;  she  had  all  her  lists  ready  for  the  shops  at 
Inverness;  and  she  wanted  time  to  have  the  servants  tested 
before  her  father's  arrival.  Mrs.  Graham,  of  course,  lived 
in  the  one  blissful  hope  of  seeing  Baby  again  ;  while  her 
liusband  was  beginning  to  think  that  a  little  salmon-fishing 
would  be  an  excellent  thing.  But  the  reason  the  Master  of 
Lynn  had  for  welcoming  this  decision  was  much  more 
occult. 

"  Polly,"  he  had  said  to  his  sister  on  the   previous  day, 
"do  you  know,  your  friend  Miss  Yolande — " 

"My  friend  !  "  she  said,  staring  at  him, 

"  She  seems  more  intimate  with  you  than  with  any  one 
else,  at  all  events,"  said  he.  "Well,  I  was  going  to  say 
that  site  takes  things  pretty  c<X)lly." 

"  I  don't  understand  you." 


138  YOLANDE. 

"  I  say  she  takes  things  very  coolly,"  he  repeated.  "  No 
one  would  imagine  she  was  engaged  at  all." 

**  Are  you  complaining  of  her  already  ?  " 

"  I  am  not  complaining ;  I  am  stating  a  fact." 

"  What  is  wrong  then  ?  Do  you  want  her  to  go  about 
proclaiming  her  engagement?  Why,  she  can't.  You 
haven't  given  her  an  engagement  ring  yet.  Give  her  her 
ensjagement  ring  j&rst  and  then  she  can  go  about  and  show 
it.'"' 

"  Oh,  you  know  very  well  what  1  mean.  You  know 
that  no  one  cares  less  about  sentimentality  and  that  sort  of 
thing  than  I  do  ;  I  don't  believe  in  it  much  ;  but  still — she  ie 
just  a  trifle  too  business-like.  She  seeitis  to  say  :  *  Did  I 
promise  to  marry?  Oh.  very  well;  all  right,  when  •  the 
time  comes.  Call  again  to-morrow.'  Of  course  my  idea 
would  not  be  to  have  a  languishing  love-sick  maiden  always 
lolloping  at  your  elbow ;  but  her  absolute  carelessneps  and 
indifference — " 

*'0h,  Archie,  how  can  you  say  such  a  thing !  She  is 
most  friendly  with  you — " 

"Friendly!  Yes;  so  she  is  with  Graham.  ^  Is  it  the 
way  they  bring  up  girls  in  France  ? — to  have  precisely  the 
same  amount  of  friendliness  for  everybody— lovers,  husbands, 
or  even  other  people's  husbands.  It  is  convenient,  certainly ; 
but  things  might  get  mixed." 

"  I  wonder  to  hear  you,"  said  Mrs.  Graham,  indignantly. 
"  You  don't  deserve  your  good  fortune.  The  fact  is,  Yo- 
lande  Winterbourne  happens  to  have  very  good  health  and 
s|)irits,  and  she  is  naturally  light-hearted  ;  whereas  you 
would  like  to  have  her  sombre  and  mysterious,  I  suppose  ; 
or  ])erhaps  it  is  the  excitement  of  lovers'  quarrels  that  you 
uant.  Is  that  it?  Do  you  want  to  be  quarrelling  and 
making  up  again  all  day  long?  Well,  to  tell  you  the  truth, 
Archie,  you  haven't  hit  on  the  right  sort  of  girl.  Now 
Sh.ena  Van  would  have  suited  you  ;  she  has  a  temper  that 
would  have  given  you  amusement — " 

'*  Leave  Miss  Stewiirt  alone,"  he  said,  roughly.  *'  I 
wish  there  were  many  woman  in  the  world  like  her :  if  there 
are,  I  haven't  met  them." 

"  Yolandc  is  too  good  for  you." 

*'  So  she  seems  to  think,  at  all  events." 

*'  Why  don't  you  go  and  quarrel  with  her,  then  ?  What 
is  the  use  of  comine^  and  talking  over  the  matter  with 
m«?" 


YOLANDE.  130 

*' Willi  her?  It  wouldn't  interest  her.  She  would 
rather  talk  about  the  price  of  coals,  or  the  chances  of  the 
Irish  getting  Home  Rule — anything  but  what  ought  to  be 
the  most  important  event  in  her  life." 

"  Archie,"  said  his  sister,  who  did  not  attach  too  much 
seriousness  to  these  temporary  moods  of  disappointment,  "  if 
papa  linds  out  tnat  Mr.  Winterbourne  is  half  inclined,  and 
more  than  half  inclined,  to  favor  Home  Rule,  he  will  go 
out  of  his  senses." 

"Let  him  go  out  of  his  senses,"  said  her  brother,  with 
deliberate  indifference.  "  I  suppose  the  worst  that  could 
happen  would  be  the  breaking  off  of  the  match." 

But  this  possibility,  involving  the  destruction  of  all  her 
beautiful  plans  and  dreams  of  the  future,  instantly  awoke 
her  alarm ;  and  her  protest  was  emphatic. 

"  Archie,"  said  she,  regarding  him  sternly,  *'  I  beg  you 
to  remember  that  you  are  expected  to  act  as  a  gentle- 
man." 

"I  don't  know  what  you  mean,"  he  said. 

"  I  will  tell  you,  plain  enough.  You  have  asked  this 
girl  to  be  your  wife;  she  has  accepted  you  ;  your  engage- 
ment has  been  made  known  ;  and  I  say  this,  that  if  you 
were  to  throw  her  over — I  don't  care  for  what  reason — you 
would  stamp  yourself  as  a  coward.  Is  that  ])lain  ?  A  girl 
may  be  allowed  to  change  her  mind —  at  least  she  some- 
times does,  and  there  is  not  much  said  against  her;  but  the 
man  who  engages  himself  to  a  girl,  and  allows  the  engage- 
ment to  be  know  and  talked  about,  and  then  throws  her 
over,  I  say  is  a  coward,  neither  more  nor  less.  And  I  don't 
believe  it  of  you.  I  don't  believe  you  would  allow  papa  or 
any  one  else  to  interfere,  now  the  thing  is  settled.  The 
Leslies  are  not  made  of  stuff  like  that." 

"That  is  all  very  well" — he  was  going  to  urge;  but 
the  impetuous  little  woman  would  have  her  say. 

"What  is  more,  I  honor  her  highly  for  her  reseive. 
There  is  nothing  more  disgusting  than  to  see  young  people 
dawdling  and  fondling  in  the  presence  of  others.  You  don't 
want  to  be  Jenny  and  Jock  going  to  the  fair,  do  you?" 

"  Look  here,  Demosthenes  "  he  said  calmly.  "  You  are 
are  as  good  as  any  one  I  know  at  drawing  a  herring  across 
the  scent;  but  you  are  perfectly  aware  all  the  time  of  what 
1  mean." 

This  somewhat  disconcerted  her. 

"  Well  I  am — in  a  way,"  she  said  ;  and  her  tone  was  now 


140  YOLANDE. 

rather  one  of  appeal.  **  But  don't  you  see  what  life  on  board 
this  boat  is?  It  is  all  in  the  open.  You  can  not  expect  any 
girl  to  be  confidential  when  you  have  scarcely  ever  a  chance 
of  talking  to  her  by  herself.  You  must  make  allowances, 
Archie.  I  do  know  what  you  mean  but — but  I  don't 
think  you  are  right;  and  I,  for  one,  am  very  glad  to  see  her 
so  light-hearted.  You  may  depend  on  it,  she  liasn't  sacrificed 
any  one  else  m  order  to  accept  you.  Her  cheerfuhiess 
promises  very  well  for  the  future — that  is  my  idea  of  it ; 
it  shows  that  she  is  not  thinking  of  somebody  else,  as  girls 
sometimes  do,  even  after  they  are  engaged.  Of  course  it  isn't 
the  girl's  place  to  declare  her  sentiments ;  and  it  does  happen 
sometimes  that  there  is  some*one  they  would  rather  h.ave 
had  speak ;  and  of  course  there  is  an  occasional  backward 
glance,  even  after  marriage.  In  Yolande's  case  I  don't 
think  there  is.  One  cannot  be  certain  ;  but  I  don't  think 
there  is.  And  why  should  you  be  disappointed  because  she 
does  not  too  openly  show  her  preference  ?  Of  course  she 
can't — in  tliis  sort  of  life.  But  you  will  have  the  whole 
field  to  yourself.  You  have  no  rival ;  and  she  has  a  quickly 
grateful  nature.  You  will  have  her  all  to  yourself  in  the 
Highlands.  Here  she  is  waiting  on  her  father  half  the  time 
and  the  other  half  Jim  is  making  fun  with  her.  ,  At  Inves- 
troy  it  will  be  quite  different." 

'^  Well,  perhaps,  I  hope  so."  said  he. 

'*  Of  course  it  will !  You  will  have  her  all  to  yourself. 
Jim  will  be  away  at  his  fences  and  his  pheasant  coops,  and 
I  shall  have  plenty  to  do  in  the  house.  And  if  you  want  her 
to  quarrel  with  you,  I  daresay  she  will  oblige  you.  Most  girls 
can  manage  that.  But  the  first  thing  to  be  done,  Archie — ■ 
in  sober  seriousness — is  to  buy  a  very  nice  engagement  ring 
for  her  at  Cairo ;  and  that  will  be  always  reminding  her. 
And  I  do  hope  it  will  be  a  nice  one,  a  very  handsome  one 
indeed.  You  ought  not  to  consider  expense  on  such  an  oc- 
casion. If  you  haven't  quite  enough  money  with  you,  Jim 
will  lend  you  some.  It  is  certainly  odd  that  she  should 
have  no  family  jewelry  ;  but  it  is  all  the  greater  opportunity 
for  you  to  give  her  something  very  pretty ;  and  you  ought 
to  show  the  Winterbournes,  for  your  own  sake,  and  for  the 
sake  of  our  family,  that  you  can  do  the  thing  handsomely." 

He  laughed. 

*'  To  hear  you,  Polly,  one  would  think  you  were  an  old 
woman — a  thorough  schemer.     And  yet  how  long  is  it  since 


YOLANDE.  V  141 

your  chief  deiight   in   life  used   to   be   to  go   taboggining 
down  the  face  Bendy  erg?  " 

*'  I  have  learned  a  little  common-sense  since  then,"  said 
pretty  JNIrs.  Graham,  with  a  demure  smile. 

Well,  he  did  buy  a  very  handsome  ring  for  her  when 
they  got  to  Cairo  ;  and  Yolande  was  greatly  ])leased  with  it, 
and  said  something  very  kind  and  pretty  to  him.  More- 
over, there  was  a  good  deal  of  buying  going  on.  The 
gentlemen  at  the  Consulate  had  expressed  the  belief  that 
they  were  in  no  immediate  danger  of  having  their  throats 
cut ;  and  they  set  to  work  to  ransack  the  bazars  with  a 
right  good  will.  Nor  was  there  any  concealment  of  the 
intent  of  most  of  those  purchases.  Of  course  they  bought 
trinkets  and  bric-a-brac,  mostly  for  presentation  to  their 
friends ;  and  Mr.  Winterbourne  insisted  on  Mrs.  Graham 
accepting  from  him  a  costly  piece  of  Syrian  embroidery  on 
which  she  had  set  longing  eyes  during  their  previous  visit. 
But  the  great  mass  of  their  purchases — at  least  of  Mr. 
Winterbourne's  purchases — was  clearly  and  obviously  meant 
for  the  decoration  of  Yolande's  future  home.  Under  Mrs. 
Graham's  guidance  he  bought  all  sorts  of  silk  stuffs,  em- 
broideries, and  draperies.  He  had  a  huge  case  packed 
with  hand-graven  brasswork — squat,  quaint  candlesticks, 
large  shields,  cups,  trays,  and  what  not;  and  once,  when  in 
an  old  curiosity  shop,  and  Yolande  happening  to  be  stand- 
ing outside,  Mrs.  Graham  ventured  to  remonstrate  with 
him  about  the  cost  of  some  l^hodion  dishes  he  had  just  said 
he  would  take,  he  answered  her  thus  : — 

"  My  dear  Mrs.  Graham,  when  in  Egypt  we  must  do  as 
the  Egyptians  do.  Don't  you  remember  the  bride  who 
came  down  to  the  river  bringing  with  her  her  bales  of 
carpets  and  her  drove  of  donkeys?  Yolande  must  have 
her  plenishing — that  is  a  good  Scotch  word  is  it  not  ?  " 

"But  I  should  think  she  must  have  about  a  dozen  of 
those  shieks'  headdresses  already,"  said  pretty  Mrs. 
Graham.  '*  And  we  don't  really  have  so  many  fancy-dress 
balls  in  Inverness.     Besides,  she  could  not  go  as  a  sheik." 

"Fancy-dress  balls?  Oh  no;  nothing  of  the  kind. 
They  will  do  for  a  dozen  things  in  a  room — to  be  pitched 
on  to  sofas  or  on  the  backs  of  chair — merely  patches  of  line 
color." 

'*  And  that,"  said  she,  with  a  smile,  looking  at  an  antique 
Persian    dagger  with   an   exquisitely    carved    handle    and 


142  YOLANDE. 

elaborately  inlaid  sheath — "of  what  use  will  that  be  in  the 
Highlands?" 

"  My  dear  madam,"  said  he,  with  a  perfectly  grave  face, 
**  I  have  not  listened  to  your  husband  and  your  brother 
for  nothing.  Is  it  not  necessary  to  have  something  with 
whicli  to  gralloch  a  wounded  stag  ?  " 

"To  gralloch  a  stag  with  a  beautiful  thing  like  that!  " 
she  exclaimed  in  horror. 

"  And  if  it  is  too  good  for  that,  can  not  Yolande  use  it 
as  a  paper-knife?  You  don't  mean  to  say  that  when  you 
and  your  husband  came  home  from  India  you  brougiit  back 
no  curiosities  with  you  ?  " 

'*  Of  course  we  did,  and  long  before  that  Jim  had  a 
whole  lot  of  things  from  the  Summer  Palace  at  Pekin  ;  but 
then  we  are  old  people.  These  things  are  too  expensive 
for  young  people  just  beginning." 

"  The  bride  must  have  her  plenishing,"  said  he,  briefly ; 
and  then  he  began  to  bargain  for  a  number  of  exceedingly 
beautiful  Damascus  tilfcs,  which  he  thought  would  just 
about  be  sufficient  for  the  construction  of  a  fireplace. 

Nor  were  these  people  the  least  bit  ashamed  when,  some 
days  after  this,  they  managed  to  smuggle  their  valuable 
cases  on  board  the  homeward-bound  steamer  without  pay- 
ing the  customs  dues.  Mr.  Winterbourne  declared  that  a 
nation  which  was  so  financially  mad  as  to  levy  an  eight  per 
cent  ad  valorem  duty  on  exports — or  rather  that  a  nation 
which  was  so  mad  as  to  tax  exports  at  all — ought  not  to  bo 
there  encouraged  in  its  lunacy ;  and  he  further  consoled  his 
conscience  by  reflecting  that  so  far  from  his  party  having 
spoiled  the  Egyptians,  it  was  doubtless  all  the  other  way  ; 
and  that  probably  some  £60  or  £70  of  English  money  had 
been  left  in  the  Cairene  bazars  which  had  no  right  to  be  there 
However,  he  was  content.  The  things  were  such  things  as 
he  liad  wanted  ;  he  had  got  them  as  cheaply  as  seemed 
possible  ;  he  would  have  paid  more  for  them  had  it  been 
necessary.  For,  he  said  to  himself,  even  the  rooms  of  a 
Highland  shooting-box  might  be  made  more  picturesque 
and  interesting  by  these  art  relics  of  other  and  former 
civilizations.  He  did  not  know  what  kind  of  home  the 
Master  of  Lynn  was  likely  to  provide  for  his  bride ;  but 
good  colors  and  good  materials  were  appropriate  anywhere; 
and  even  if  Yolande  and  her  husband  were  to  succeed  to 
the  possession  of  Lynn  Towers,  and  even  if  the  rooms  there 
(as  he  had  heard  was  the  case  at  Balmoral;  were  decorated 


YOLANDE.  143 

exclusively  in  Highland  fashion,  surely  they  could  set  aside 
some  chamber  for  the  reception  of  those  draperies,  and  pot- 
teries, and  tiles,  and  what  not,  that  would  remind  Yolande 
of  hivr  visit  to  the  East.  The  bride  must  have  her  plenish- 
ing, he  said  to  himself  again  and  again.  But  they  bought 
no  jewelry  of  a  good  kind  in  Cairo  ;  Mr.  Winterbourne 
said  he  would  rather  trust  Bond  Street  wares. 

And  at  last  the  big  steamer  slowly  sailed  away  from 
the  land,  and  they  had  begun  their  homeward  voyage. 
Mrs.  Graham  and  her  husband  were  on  the  hurricane-deck ; 
she  was  leaning  with  both  arms  on  the  rail. 

"  Good-by,  Egypt,"  said  she,  as  she  regarded  the  pale 
yellow  country  under  the  pale  turquoise  sky.     "You  have 
been  very  kind  to  me.     You  have  made  me  a  most  charm- 
ing present  to  take  back  with  me  to  the  Highlands.'* 
"  Wh&t,  then  ?  "  said  her  husband. 
"  A  sister." 

"  She  isn't  your  sister  yet,"  he  said,  gruffly. 
"She  is;  and  she  will  be,"  she  -answered,  confidently. 
**  Do  you  know,  Jim,  I  had  my  hopes  and  wishes  all  the 
way  out,  but  I  could  never  be  sure,  for  Archie  is  not  easily 
caught.  And  I  don't  think  she  distinguished  him  much 
from  the  others  on  the  voyage  here,  except  in  so  far  as  ho 
was  one  of  our  party.  Sometimes  I  gave  it  up,  to  tell  you 
the  truth.  And  then  again  it  seemed  so  desirable  in  every 
way,  for  I  had  got  to  like  the  girl  myself,  and  I  could  see 
that  Archie  would  be  safe  with  her ;  and  I  could  see  very 
well,  too,  that  Mr.  Winterbourne  had  his  eyes  open,  and 
that  he  seemed  very  well  disposed  toward  it." 

"  You  must  have  been  watching  everybody  like  a  cat,  " 
her  husband  said,  in  not  too  complimentary  fashion. 

"  Can  you  wonder  that  I  was  interested  ?  "  she  said,  in 
protest.  "  Just  fancy  what  it  would  be  for  us  if  he  had 
brought  some  horrid  insufferable  creature  to  Lynn  !  I 
wouldn't  have  gone  near  the  place  ;  and  we  have  little 
enough  society  as  it  is.  But  that  life  on  the  Nile  did  it ; 
and  I  knew  it  would  the  moment  the  dahabeeyah  had  started 
away  from  Asyout — being  all  by  ourselves  like  that,  and  he 
paying  her  little  attentions  all  day  long.  He  couldn't  help 
doing  that,  could  he  ? — it  wouldn't  have  been  civil.  And  I 
foresaw  what  the  end  would  be ;  and  I  am  very  glad  of  it, 
and  quite  grateful  to  Egypt  and  the  Nile,  despite  all  tha 
tiies  and      e  mosquitoes." 


144  YOLANDE. 

"  I  dare  say  it  will  turn  out  all  right,"  her  husband  said, 
indifferently. 

"  Well,  you  don't  seem  very  delighted,"  she  exclaimed. 
"  Is  that  all  you  have  to  say?  Don't  you  think  it  is  a  very 
good  thing?" 

"  Well,  yes,  1  do  think  it  is  a  good  thing.  I  have  no 
doubt  they  will  get  on  very  well  together.  And  in  other 
respects  the  match  will  be  an  advantageous  one." 

"  That  is  rather  cold  approval,"  said  she,  somewhat  dis- 
appointed. 

"  Oh  no,  it  isn't,"  said  he,  and  lie  turned  from  looking  at 
tlie  retreating  land,  and  regarded  her.  "I  say  I  don't  think 
he  could  have  chosen  better,  and  I  believe  they  will  be 
happy  enough  ;  and  they  ought  to  be  comfortable  and  well 
off.  Isn't  that  sufticient?  He  seems  fond  of  her;  I  think 
they  will  lead  a  very  comfortable  life.     What  more?" 

"  But  there  is  something  behind  what  you  say,  Jim  ;  I 
know  there  is,"  she  said. 

"And  if  there  is,  it  is  nothing  very  serious,"  said  he; 
and  then  he  added,  with  a  curious  sort  of  smile:  "I  tell 
you  I  think  it  will  come  out  all  right;  I  am  sure  it  will. 
But  you  can't  deny  this,  Polly — well,  I  don't  know  how  to 
put  it.  I  may  be  mistaken.  I  haven't  as  sharp  eyes  as 
yours.  But  I  have  a  fancy  that  this  marriage,  though  I 
I  have  no  doubt  it  will  be  a  happy  enough  one,  will  be,  on 
her  side  at  least — " 

"  What,,  then  ?  "  said  his  wife,  peremptorily. 

"  I  don't  quite  know  whether  the  French  have  a  phrase 
for  it,"  said  he,  evasively, but  still  with  the  same  odd  smile 
on  his  face.  "  Probably  they  have  ;  they  ought  to  have,  at 
least.  At  any  rate,  I  have  a  kind  of  fancy — now  it's  noth- 
ing very  terrible — I  say  I  have  a  dim  kind  of  fancy  that,  on 
her  side,  the  marriage  will  be  something  that  might  bo 
called  a  marrmge  de  complaisance.  Oh,  you  needn't  go 
away  in  a  temper  !  There  have  been  w^orse  marriageK  than 
a  marriage  de  complaisance," 


YOLANDE,  145 


CHAPTER  XIX. 

AMONG  THE  CLOtTDS. 


Far  up  in  the  wild  and  lonely  hills  that  form  the  back- 
bone as  it  were,  of  eastern  Inverness-shire,  in  the  desert 
solitudes  where  the  Findhorn  and  the  Foyers  first  begin  to 
draw  their  waters  from  a  thausand  mystic  named  or  name- 
less rills,  stands  the  lodge  of  ^It-nam-Ba.  The  plain  little 
double-gabled  building,  with  its  dependence  of  kennels, 
stables,  coachhouse,  and  keeper's  bothy,  occupies  a  pro- 
montory formed  by  the  confluence  of  two  brawling  streams, 
and  faces  a  long,  wide,  beautiful  valley,  which  terminates 
in  the  winding  waters  of  a  locJi.  It  is  the  only  sign  of  habi- 
tation in  the  strangely  silent  district,  and  it  is  the  last. 
The  rough  hill-road  leading  to  it  terminates  there.  From 
that  small  plateau  divergent  corries — softly  wooded  most 
of  them  are,  with  waterfalls  half  hidden  by  birch  and  rowan 
trees — stretch  up  still  further  into  a  sterile  wilderness  of 
moor  and  lochan  and  bare  mountain-top,  the  haunt  of  the 
ptarmigan,  the  red  deer,  and  the  eagle  ;  and  the  only  sound 
to  be  heard  in  these  voiceless  altitudes  is  the  monotonous 
murmur  of  the  various  burns — the  White  Winding  Water, 
the  Dun  Water,  the  Stream  of  the  Red  Lochan,  the  Stream 
of  the  Fairies,  the  Stream  of  the  Corrie  of  the  Horses,  as 
they  are  called  in  the  Gaelic. 

At  the  door  of  this  solitary  little  lodge,  on  a  morning 
toward  the  end  of  July,  Yolande  Winterbourne  was  stand- 
ing, engaged  in  buttoning  on  her  driving  gloves,  but  oc- 
casionally glancing  out  at  the  bewildering,  changeful, 
flashing,  and  gleaming  day  around  her.  For,  indeed,  since 
she  had  come  to  live  at  AUt-nam-Ba  she  had  acquired  the 
conviction  that  the  place  seemed  very  close  up  to  the  sky, 
and  that  this  broad  valley,  walled  in  by  those  great  and 
silent  hills,  formed  a  sort  of  cauldron,  in  which  the  elements 
were  in  the  habit  of  mixing  up  weather  for  transference, 
to  the  wide  world  beyond.  At  this  very  moment,  for  ex- 
ample, a  continual  phantasmagoria  of  cloud  effects  was  pass- 
ing before  her  eyes.  Far  mountain-tops  grew  blacker  and 
blacker  in  shadow ;  then  the  gray  mist  of  the  rain  stole  slovrly 


146  YOLANDE. 

across  and  bid  thera  from  view ;  then  tliey  re-appeared 
again,  and  a  sudden  shaft  of  sunlight  would  strike  on  the 
yellow-green  slopes  and  on  the  boulders  of  wet  and  glitter- 
ing granite.  But  she  had  this  one  consolation — that  the 
prospect  in  front  of  the  lodge  was  much  more  re-assuring 
than  that  behind.  Behind — over  the  mountainous  ranges 
of  the  moor — the  clouds  were  banking  up  in  a  heavy  and 
thunderous  purple;  and  in  the  ominous  silence  the  streams 
coming  down  from  the  corries  sounded  loud ;  whereas, 
away  before  her,  the  valley  that  led  down  to  the  haunts  of 
men  was  for  the  most  part  flooded  with  brilliant  sunliglu, 
and  the  wide-swept  loch  was  of  the  darkest  and  Keenest 
blue.  Altogether  there  was  more  life  and  motion  here — 
more  color  and  brlliancy  and  change — than  in  the  pale  and 
placid  Egyptian  landscape  she  had  grown  accustomed  to ; 
but  there  was  also — she  might  have  been  pardoned  for 
thinking — for  one  who  was  about  to  drive  fourteen  miles 
in  a  dog-cart,  a  little  more  anxiety,  and  she  had  already  re- 
solved to  take  her  waterproof  with  her. 

However,  she  was  not  much  dismayed.  She  had  lived 
in  this  weather-brewing  cauldron  of  a  place  for  some  little 
time,  and  had  grown  familiar  with  its  threatening  glooms, 
which  generally  came  to  nothing,  and  with  its  sudden  and 
dazzling  glories,  which  laughed  out  a  welcome  to  the  lonely 
traveller  in  the  most  surprising  fashion.  When  the  dog- 
cart— a  four-wheeled  vehicle — was  brought  round,  she 
stepped  into  it  lightly,  and  took  the  reins  as  if  to  the  man- 
ner bom,  though  she  had  never  handled  a  whip  until  Mrs. 
Graham  had  put  her  in  training  at  Inverstroy.  Then  there 
was  a  strict  charge  to  Jane  to  see  that  brisk  fires  were  kept 
burning  in  all  the  rooms  ;  for  although  it  was  still  July  the 
air  of  these  alpine  solitudes  mms  sometimes  somewhat  keen. 
And  then — the  youthful  and  fair-haired  Snndy  having  got 
up  behind — she  released  the  brake ;  and  presently  they 
were  making  their  way,  slowly  and  cautiously  at  first,  down 
the  stony  path,  and  over  the  loud  sounding  wooden  bridge 
that  here  spans  the  roaring  red-brown  waters  of  the  Allt- 
cam-Ban. 

But  w^hen  once  they  were  over  the  bridge  and  into  the 
road  leading  down  the  wide  strath,  they  quickly  mended 
their  pace.  There  was  an  unusual  eagerness  and  bright- 
ness in  her  look.  Sandy  the  groom  knew  that  the  stout 
and  serviceable  cob  in  the  shafts  was  a  sure-footed  beast ; 
but  the  road  was  of  the  roughest ;  and  he  could  not  und^l*- 


YOLANDE.  147 

Stand  why  the  young  English  lady,  who  was  generally  very 
cautious,  should  drive  so  fast.  Was  it  to  get  away  from 
the  black  thunder  masses  of  cloud  that  lay  over  the  moun- 
tain behind  them  ?  Here,  at  least,  there  seemed  no  danger 
of  any  storm.  The  sunlight  was  brilliant  on  the  wide  green 
pastures  and  on  the  flashing  waters  of  the  stream;  and  the 
steep  and  sterile  hillsides  were  shining  now  ;  and  the  loch 
far  ahead  of  them  had  its  wind-rippled  surface  of  a  blue 
like  the  heart  of  a  sapphire.  Yolande's  face  soon  showed 
the  influence  of  the  warm  sunlight  and  of  the  fresh  keen 
air;  and  her  eyes  were  glad,  though  they  seemed  busy 
with  other  things.  Indeed,  there  was  scarcely  any  sign  of 
life  around  to  attract  her  attention.  The  sheep  on  the  vast 
slo|)es,  where  there  was  but  a  scanty  pasturage  among  the 
blocks  of  granite,  were  as  small  gray  specks ;  an  eagle 
slowly  circling  on  motionless  wing  over  the  furthest  moun- 
tain range,  looked  no  bigger  than  a  hawk ;  some  young 
falcons,  whose  cry  sounded  just  overhead  among  the  crags, 
were  invisible.  But  perhaps  she  did  not  heed  these  things 
much.  She  seemed  preoccupied,  and  yet  happy  and  light- 
hearted. 

When,  in  due  course  of  timi,  they  reached  the  end  of 
the  valley,  and  got  on  to  the  road  that  wound  along  the 
wooded  shores  of  tlie  loch,  there  was  much  easier  going, 
and  Sandy  dismissed  his  fears.  It  was  a  pretty  loch,  this 
stretch  of  wind-stirred  blue  water,  for  the  hills  surrounding 
it  were  somewhat  less  sterile  than  those  at  AUt-nam-Ba  ; 
here  and  there  the  banks  were  fringed  with  hazel ;  and  at 
the  lower  end  of  it,  where  the  river  flowing  from  it  wound 
through  a  picturesque  ravine,  were  the  dark  green  planta- 
tions surrounding  Lynn  Towers.  They  had  driven  for 
about  a  mile  and  a  half  or  so  by  the  shores  of  the  lake,  when 
Yolande  fancied  she  heard  some  clanking  noise  proceeding 
from  the  other  side  ;  and  thereupon  she  instantly  asked 
Sandy  what  that  could  be,  for  any  sound  save  the  bleating 
of  sheep  or  the  croak  of  a  raven  was  an  unusual  thing  here. 
The  young  Highland  lad  strained  his  eyes  in  the  direction 
of  the  distant  hillside,  and  at  last  he  said, — 

"  Oh  yes,  I  see  them  now.  They  will  be  the  men  taking 
up  more  fencing  to  the  forest.  '  Duncan  was  speaking  about 
that,  madam." 

(For  he  was  a  polite  youth,  as  far  as  his  English  went.) 

"  I  can't  see  anything,  Sandy,"  said  the  young  lady. 

"  If  Miss   Winterbourne   would  be  looking  about  half- 


148  YOLANDE. 

way  up  the  hill — they  are  by  the  side  of  the  gray  corria 
now.*' 

Then  he  added,  after  a  second, — 

"  I  am  tliinking  that  will  be  the  Master  at  the  top." 

"  Do  you  mean  the  Master  of  Lynn  ?  "  she  said  quickly. 

"  Yes,  madam." 

"  Well,  your  eyes  are  sharper  than  mine,  Sandy.  I  can 
see  that  black  speck  on  the  sky-line,  but  that  is  all." 

"  He  is  waving  a  handkercliief  now,"  said  Sandy  witli 
much  coolness. 

"  Oh,  that  is  impossible.  How  could  he  make  us  out  at 
this  distance  ?" 

"  The  Master  will  know  there  is  no  other  carriage  than 
this  one  coming  from  AUt-nam-Ba." 

"  Very  well,  then,"  said  she  taking  out  her  handkerchief 
and  giving  it  a  little  shake  or  two  in  the  sunliglit.  ''  1  will 
take  the  cliance  ;  but  you  know,  Sandy,  it  is  more  likely  to 
be  one  of  the  keepers  waving  his  hand  to  you." 

"  Oh  no,  madam ;  it  is  the  Master  himself ;  I  am  sure  of 
it.  He  was  up  at  the  bothy  yesterday  evening  to  see  Dun- 
can about  the  gillies,  and  he  was  saying  something  about 
the  new  fence  above  the  loch." 

"  Was  Mr.  Leslie  at  Allt-nam-Ba  last  night?  "  said  she 
in  surprise. 

"  Oh  yes,  madam." 

"  Ancl  he  left  no  message  for  me  ?  " 

**  I  think  there  was  not  any  message.  But  he  was  ask- 
ing when  Miss  Winterbourne's  father  was  coming  and  I 
told  him  that  I  was  to  drive  Miss  Winterboarne  into 
Foyers  this  niorning." 

'*  Oh,  that's  all  right,"  she  said,  with  much  content. 

By  this  time  they  had  i-eached  the  lower  end  of  the  lake  ; 
and  when  they  had  crossed  the  wooden  bridge  over  the 
river  and  ascended  a  bit  of  a  hill,  they  found  themselves 
opposite  Lynn  Towers — a  large,  modern  building,  which, 
with  its  numerous  conservatories,  stood  on  a  level  piece  of 
ground  on  the  other  side  of  the  ravine.  Then  on  again  ; 
and  in  time  they  beheld  stretching  out  before  them  a  wide 
and  variegated  plain,  looking  rich  and  fertile  and  cultivated 
after  the  mountainous  solitudes  they  had  left  behind,  while 
all  around  them  were  hanging  woods,  with  open  slopes  of 
pasture,  and  rills  running  down  to  the  river  in  the  valley 
beneath.  As  they  drove  on  and  down  into  that  smiling 
uttd  chining  country,  the  day  grew  more  and  more  brilliant. 


YOLANDE.  149 

The  breaks  of  blue  in  the  sky  grew  broader,  the  silver-gleam- 
iiig  clouds  went  slowly  by  to  the  east,  and  the  air,  which 
was  much  warmer  down  here,  was  perfumed  with  the  deli- 
cate resmous  odor  of  the  sweet-gale.  Wild  flowers  grew 
more  luxuriantly.  Here  and  there  a  farmhouse  appeared, 
with  fields  of  grain  encroaching  on  the  moorland.  And  at 
last,  after  some  miles  of  this  gradual  descent,  Yolande  ar 
rived  at  a  little  sprinkling  of  houses  sufficient  in  number 
— though  much  scattered  among  the  fields — to  be  called 
a  village,  and  drew  up  at  the  small  wooden  gate  of  a  modest 
little  mansion,  very  prettily  situated  in  the  midst  of  a 
garden  of  roses,  columbine,  nasturtiums,  and.  other  cottage 
favorites. 

No  sooner  had  the  carriage  stopped  than  instantly  the 
door  was  opened  by  a  smiling  and  comely  dame,  with  sil- 
ver-gray hair,  and  pleasant,  shrewd  gray  eyes,  who  came 
down  the  garden  path.  She  was  neatly  and  plainly  dressed 
in  a  housekeeper-looking  kind  of  costume,  but  her  face  was 
refined  and  intelligent,  and  there  was  a  sort  of  motherli- 
ness,  in  the  look  with  which  she  regarded  the  young  En- 
glish lady. 

"  Do  you  know  that  I  meant  to  scold  you,  Mrs  Bell,  for 
robbing  your  garden  again  ?  "  said  Yolande.  ''  But  this 
time — no — I  am  not  going  to  scold  you;  I  can  only  thank 
you;  for  my  papa  is  coming  to-day;  and  oh,  you  should 
see  how  pretty  the  rooms  are  with  the  flowers  you  sent  me  ! 
But  not  again  now — not  any  more  destroying  the  garden." 
*'  Dear  me,  and  is  your  papa  coming  the  day  ?  "  said  the 
elderly  woman  in  a  slow,  persuasive,  gentle,  south-country 
sort  of  fashion. 

"  I  am  going  now  to  meet  him  at  the  steamer,"  said 
Yolande  quickly.     "  That  is  why — " 

"  Well,  now,"  said  Mrs.  Bell,  "  that  is  just  a  most  ex- 
traordinary piece  of  good  luck  ;  for  I  happen  to  have  a  pair 
of  the  finest  and  plumpest  young  ducklings  that  ever  I  set 
eyes  on." 

"  No,  no ;  no,  no,  no,"  Yolande  cried,  laughing  ;  "  1  can- 
not have  any  more  excuses  for  these  kindnesses  and  kind 
nesses.  Every  day  since  I  came  here — every  day  a  fresh 
excuse — and  always  the  boy  coming  with  Mrs.  BelFs  com 
pliments — " 

"  Dinna  ye  think  I  know  perfectly  well,"  said  the  other, 
in  a  tone  of  half-indignant  renjonstrance  "  what  it  is  for  a 
young  leddy  to  be  trying  housekeeping  in  a  place  like  yon  ? 


loO  YOLANDE. 

So  there's  not  to  be  another  word  about  it.  Ye'll  jist  stop 
for  a  minute  as  ye're  going  back,  and  take  the  ducklings  wi' 
ye  ;  ay,  and  I've  got  a  nice  bunch  or  two  o'  fresh-cut  lettuce 
for  ye,  and  a  few  carrots  and  turnips — I  declare  it's  a 
shame  to  see  the  things  wasting  in  the  gairden,  for  we  canna 
use  the  half  of  them." 

"  Wouldn't  it  be  simpler  for  you  to  give  me  the  garden 
find  the  house  and  everything  all  at  once  ?  "  said  Yolande 
"  Well,  now,  I  wish  to  see  Mr.  Melville." 

"  Fe  canna  do  that,"  was  the  prompt  reply. 

"  Why  ?  "  said  the  girl,  with  something  of  a  stare,  for 
she  had  not  been  in  the  habit  of  having  her  requests  refused 
up  in  this  part  of  the  world. 

*'  He  is  at  his  work,"  said  the  elderly  dame,  glancing  at 
a  small  building  that  stood  at  right  angles  with  the  house. 
"  Do  ye  think  I  would  disturb  him  when  he  is  at  his  work? 
Do  ye  think  I  want  him  to  send  me  about  my  business  ?  " 

"  Tliere  is  a  tyrant !  '*  exclaimed  Yolande.  "  Never 
mind,  then ;  I  wanted  to  thank  him  for  sending  me  the 
trout.  Now  I  will  not.  Well,  good-by,  Mrs.  Bell.  I  will 
take  the  vegetables,  and  be  very  grateful  to  you,  but  not 
the  ducklings." 

"  Ye'll  just  take  the  ducklings,  as  I  say,  like  a  sensible 
young  leddy,"  said  Mrs.  Bell,  with  emphasis ;  "  and  there 
is  not  to  be  another  word  about  it," 

So  on  she  drove  again,  on  this  bright  and  beautiful  July 
day,  through  a  picturesque  and  rocky  and  rugged  country, 
until  in  time  slie  reached  the  end  of  her  journey — the  charm- 
ing little  hotel  that  is  perched  high  amid  the  woods  over- 
looking Locli  Ness,  witliin  sound  of  the  thundering  Foyers 
Water.  And  as  she  had  hurried  mainly  to  give  the  cob  a 
long  mid-day  rest — the  steamer  not  being  due  till  the 
afternoon — she  now  found  herself  with  some  hours'  leisure 
at  her  disposal,  which  she  spent  in  idly  wandering  through 
the  umbrageous  woods,  startling  many  a  half-tame  pheasant, 
but  never  coming  on  the  real  object  of  her  quest,  a  roe-deer. 
And  then,  at  last,  she  heard  the  throbbing  of  paddle-wheels 
in  the  intense  silence,  and  just  about  as  quick  as  any  roe- 
deer  she  made  hei-  way  down  through  the  bracken  and  the 
bushes,  and  went  right  out  to  the  end  of  the  little  pier. 

She  made  him  out  at  once,  even  at  that  distance ;  for 
though  he  was  not  a  tall  man,  his  shar}>featured,  sun- 
reddened  face  and  silver-white  hair  made  him  easily  reo- 
ognixable.     And  of  course  she  was  gi*eatly  delighted  when 


YOLANDE.  151 

he  carae  ashore,  and  excited  too ;  and  she  herself  would 
have  carried  gun-cases,  fishing-baskets,  and  what  not  to  tlve 
dog-cart,  had  not  the  boots  from  the  hotel  interfered.  And 
she  had  a  hundred  eager  questions  and  assurances,  but 
would  pay  no  heed  to  his  remonstrance  about  the  risk  of 
her  driving. 

"  Why,  papa,  I  drove  every  day  at  Inverstroy ! "  slie 
exclaimed,  as  they  briskly  set  out  for  Allt-nani-Ba. 

"  I  suppose  the  Grahams  were  very  kind  to  you  ?  "  he 
said. 

"  Oh,  yes,  yes,  yes." 

"  And  the  Master,  how  is  he  ?  " 

**  Oh,  very  well,  T  believe.  Of  course  I  Iiave  not  seen 
him  since  Mrs.  Graham  left.  But  he  has  made  all  the  ar- 
rangments  for  you — ponies,  panniers,  everything  quite 
arranged.  And  he  left  the  rifle  at  the  bothy  ;  and  I  have 
the  cartridges  all  right  from  Inverness — oh  yes,  you  will 
find  everything  prepared  ;  and  there  is  no  want  of  provision, 
for  Mr.  Melville  sends  me  plenty  of  trout,  and  Duncan  jjoes 
up  the  hill  now  and  again  for  a  hare,  and  they  are  sending 
me  a  sheep  from  the  farm — " 

"  A  sh'eep  !  " 

"  Duncan  said  it  was  the  best  way,  to  have  a  sheep 
killed.  And  we  have  new-laid  eggs  and  fresh  milk  every 
day.  And  every  one  is  so  kind  an<l  attentive,  papa,  that 
whatever  turns  out  wrong,  that  will  be  my  fault  in  not  ar- 
ranging properly — " 

"  Oh,  that  will  be  all  right,"  said  he,  good-humoredly. 
*'  I  want  to  hear  about  yourself,  Yolande.  What  do  you 
think  of  Lord  Lynn  and  his  sister,  now  that  you  have  seen 
something  more  of  them  ?  " 

This  question  checked  her  volubility,  and  for  a  second 
a  very  odd  expression  came  over  her  face. 

"  They  are  very  serious  people,  papa,"  said  she  with 
some  caution.     "  And — and  very  pious,  I  think." 

"  But  I  suppose  you  are  as  pious  as  they  can  be  ?  "  her 
father  said.     "  That  is  no  objection." 

She  was  silent. 

"  And  those  other  people — the  old  woman  who  pretends 
to  be  a  housekeeper,  and  is  a  sort  of  Good  Fairy  in  disguise 
and  the  penniless  young  laird  who  has  no  land — " 

Instantly  her  face  brightened  up. 

''  Oh,  he  is  the  most  extraoi-dinary  person,  papa — h 
majiician  !     I  can  not  describe  it ;  you  must  see  for  vour- 


152  YOLANDE. 

self;  but  really  it  is  wonderful.  He  has  a  stream  to  work 
for  him — ^yes,  for  Mrs.  Graham  and  I  went  and  visited  it — 
climbing  away  up  the  hill — and  there  was  the  water-wheel 
at  work  in  the  water,  and  a  hut  close  by,  and  there  were 
copper  wires  to  take  the  electricity  away  down  to  the 
house,  where  he  has  a  store  of  it.  It  is  a  genie  for  him  ; 
lie  makes  it  light  the  lamps  in  the  house,  in  the  schoolroom, 
and  it  makes  electrotype  copies  for  him ;  it  works  a  lathe 
for  turning  wood — oh,  I  can't  tell  you  all  about  it.  And 
he  has  been  so  kind  to  me !  but  mostly  in  secret,  so  that 
I  could  not  catch  him  to  thank  him.  How  could  I  know  ? 
I  complain  to  Mrs.  Bell  that  it  is  a  trouble  to  send  to 
Inverness  for  some  one  to  set  the  clock  going:  the  next 
morning — it  is  all  right !  It  goes ;  nothing  wrong  at  all ! 
Then  the  broken  window  in  the  drawing-room  :  Mrs, 
Graham  and  I  drive  away  to  Fort  Augustus ;  when  I  come 
back  in  the  evening  there  is  a  new  pane  put  in.  Then  the 
filter  in  the  water-tank  up  the  hill — " 

"But  what  on  earth  is  this  wonderful  Jack-of  all 
trades  doing  here?  Why,  you  yourself  wrote  to  me, 
Yolande,  that  he  had  taken  the  Snell  Exhibition  and  the 
Ferguson  Scholarship,  and  blazed  like  a  comet  through 
Balliol ;  and  now  I  find  him  tinkerin^j  at  window-pan ei." 
She  laughed. 

"  I  think  he  works  very  hard  :  he  says   he   is  veiy  lazy. 

He  is  very  fond  of  fishing,  he  is  not   well  off,  and   hero   he 

is  permitted  to  fish  in  the  lakes  far   away  among  the   hills 

that    few   people   will  take  the  trouble   to   go   to.     Then 

naturally  he  has  much  interest  in  this  neighborhood,  where 

once  his  people  were   the  great  family ;  and   those   living 

here  have   a  great  respect  for  him  ;  and   he   has   built   a 

school,  and  teaches  in  it — it  is  a  free   school,  no    charge   at 

all,"  Yolande,  added,  hastily.  "  That  is  Mrs.  Bell's  kindness, 

the  building  of  the   school.     Then   he  makes   experiments 

and  discoveries :  is  it  not   enough  of   an   occupation   when 

every  one  is  talking  about  the  electric   light?  Also   he  is  a 

great  botanist;  and  when  it  is  not  schooltime   he   is   away 

up  in  the  hills  after  rare  plants,  or  to  fish.     Oh,  it  is  terrible 

the  loneliness  of  the  small  lakes  up  in  the   hills,   Mr.  Leslie 

has  told  me ;  no  road,  no  track,  no  life  anywhere.     And  tlie 

long  hours  of   climbing :  oh,  I  am   sure  I  have  been  sorry 

sometimes — many  times — when  day  after   day  I   receive   a 

present  of  trout  and  a  message,  to  think  of  the  long  olimb- 

ing  and  the  labor — " 


YOLANDE.  153 

**  But  why  doesn't  he  fish  in  the  loch  at  All-nam-Ba  ?" 
her  father  exclaimed.  "That  can't  be  so  difficult  to  get 
at." 

"  He  had  permission  last  year,"  said  she. 

«  Why  not  this  ?" 

"  He  tlionght  it  would  be  more  correct  to  wait  for  you 
to  give  permission." 

"  Well,  now,  Yolande,  "said  he,  peevishly,  '*  how  could 
you  be  so  stupid  ?nere  is  a  fellow  who  shows  you  all  sorts 
of  kindnesses,  and  you  haven't  enough  common-sense  to 
offer  him  a  day's  fishing  in  the  loch  !" 

"  It  was  not  my  affair,"  she  said,  cheerfully.  "  That 
was  for  you  to  arrange." 

"  Waiting  for  permission  to  fish  in  si  loch  like  that !" 
her  fathers  said,  more  good-naturedly,  for  indeed  his  discon- 
tent with  Yolande  rarely  lasted  for  more  than  about  the 
fifteenth  part  of  a  second.  "  Leslie  told  me  the  loch  would 
be  infinitely  improved  if  five-sixths  of  the  fish  were  netted 
out  of  it ;  the  trout  would  run  to  a  better  size.  However, 
Miss  Yolande,  since  you've  treated  him  badly,  you  must 
make  amends.     You  must  ask  him  to  dinner." 

"  Oh  yes,  papa,  I  shall  be  glad  to  do  that,"  she  said, 
blithely. 

"  If  the  house  is  anywhere  near  the  road,  we  can  pick 
him  up  as  we  go  along.  Then  I  suppose  you  could  send  a 
message  to  the  Master ;  he  is  not  likely  to  have  an  engage- 
ment." 

"  But  you  don't  mean  for  to-night,"  she  said,  in  amaze- 
ment. 

«  I  do,  indeed.     Why  not  ?  " 

"  What !  the  first  night  that  we  have  to  ourselves  to- 
gether, to  think  of  inviting  strangers  ?  " 

*'  Strangers  ?  "  he  repeated.  "  That  is  an  odd  phrase  to 
be  used  by  a  young  lady  who  wears  an  engaged  ring." 

"  But  I  am  not  married,  yet,  papa,"  said  she,  flushing 
slightly.  "  I  am  only  engaged.  When  I  an  a  wife,  it  may 
be  different ;  but  at  present  I  am  your  daughter." 

"  And  you  would  rather  that  we  had  this  first  evening 
all  by  ourselves  ?  " 

"  It  is  not  a  wish  papa,"  said  she,  coolly;  "  it  is  a  down- 
right certainty.  There  is  only  dinner  for  two,  and  there 
will  be  only  dinner  for  two,  and  these  two  are  you  and  I. 
Do  you  forget  that  I  am  mistress  of  the  house  ?  " 

Well,  he  seemed  nothing  loath ;  the  prospect  did  not  at 


154  YOLANDE. 

all  overcloud  his  face,  as  they  drove  away  through  this 
smiling  and  cheerful  and  picturesque  country,  with  the 
Heverer  altitude  beyond  gradually  coming  into  view. 

The  same  night  Yolande  and  her  father  set  out  for  an 
arm-in-arm  stroll  away  down  the  broad  silent  valley.  It 
was  late;. but  still  there  was  a  bewilderment  of  light  all 
around  them,  for  in  the  northwestern  heavens  the  wan 
twilight  still  lingered,  while  behind  them,  in  the  soutlieast, 
the  moon  had  risen,  and  now  projected  their  shadows  before 
them  as  they  walked  Yolande  was  talkative  and  joyous — 
the  silence  and  the  loneliness  of  the  place  did  not  seem  to 
op])ress  her;  and  he  was  always  a  contented  listener.  They 
walked  away  along  the  strath,  under  the  vast  solitude  of 
the  hills,  and  by  the  side  of  this  winding  and  murmuring 
stream,  and  in  time  they  reached  the  loch.  For  a  wonder 
it  was  perfectly  still.  The  surface  was  like  glass,  and  those 
portions  that  were  in  shadow  were  black  as  jet.  But  these 
were  not  many,  for  the  moonlight  was  shining  adown  this 
wide  space,  touching  softly  the  overhanging  crags  and  the 
woods,  and  showing  them,  as  they  got  on  still  further,  above 
the  loch  and  the  bridge  and  the  river,  and  standing  silent 
amid  the  silent  plantations,  the  pale  wliite  walls  of  Lynn. 

"  And  so  you  think,  Yolande,"  said  he,  *'  that  you  wiU 
be  quite  happy  in  living  in  this  solitary  place?" 

"  If  you  were  always  to  be  away — oh  no  ;  but  with  yoa 
coming  to  see  me  sometimes,  as  now— oh,  yes  yes:  why 
not  ?  "  said  she,  cheerf  ulfy. 

"You  wouldn't  mind  being  cut  off  from  the  rest  of  the 
world?"  he  said, 

"  I  ?  "  she  said.  "  What  is  it  to  me  ?  I  know  so  few 
people  elsewhere." 

"  It  would  be  a  peaceful  life,  Yolande,"  said  he, 
thoughtfully.     "  Would  it  not  ?  " 

"  Oh  yes,"  slie  answered,  brightly.  "  And  then,  papa, 
you  would  take  Allt-nam-Ba  for  the  whole  year,  every  year, 
and  not  merely  have  a  few  weeks'  shooting  the  autumn. 
Why  should  it  not  be  a  pleasant  place  to  live  in?  Could 
anything  be  more  beautiful  than  to-night — and  the  solitude  ? 
And  one  or  two  of  the  people  are  so  kind.  But  this  I  must 
tell  you,  papa,  that  the  one  who  has  been  kindest  to  me 
here  is  not  Lord  Lynn,  nor  his  sister,  Mrs.  Colquhoun,  nor 
any  one  of  them,  but  Mrs.  Bell ;  and  the  tirst  chance, 
when  she  is  sure  not  to  meet  Mr.  Melville,  or  Mr.  Leslie — 
for  she  is  very  particular  about  that,   and  pretends  only  to 


YOLANDE. 


155| 


be  a  housekeeper — I  am  going  to  bring  her  up  to  Allt-nam- 
Ba ;  and  you  will  see  how  charming  she  is,  and  how  good 
and  wise  and  gentle,  and  how  proud  she  is  of  Mr.  Melville. 
As  for  him,  he  laughs  at  her.  He  laughs  at  every  one. 
He  has  no  respect  for  any  one  more  than  another ;  he  talks 
to  Lord  Lynn  as  he  talks  to  Duncan — perhaps  with  more 
kindness  to  Duncan.  Rich  or  poor,  it  is  no  difference — no, 
he  does  not  seem  to  understand  that  there  is  a  difference.,' 
And  all  the  people,  the  shepherds,  the  gillies,  and  Mrs. 
Macdougal  at  the  farm — every  one  thinks  there  is  no  one 
like  him.  Perhaps  I  have  learned  a  little  from  him,  even 
in  so  short  a  time  ;  it  may  be.  I  do  not  care  that  Mrs. 
Bell  has  been  a  cook ;  that  is  nothing  to  me  ;  I  see  that  she 
is  a  good  woman,  and  clever,  and  kind ;  and  I  will  be  her 
friend  if  she  pleases  ;  and  I  know  that  he  gives  her  more 
honor  than  to  any  one  else,  though  he  does  not  say  much. 
No,  he  is  too  sarcastic ;  and  not  very  courteous.  Some- 
times he  is  almost  rude ;  but  he  is  a  little  more  considerate 
with  old  people — " 

"  Look  here,  Yolande,"  her  father  said,  with  a  laugh. 
"  All  this  afternoon,  and  all  this  evening,  and  all  down  this 
valley,  you  have  done  nothing  but  talk  about  this  wonder- 
ful Mr.  Melville,  although  you  say  you  have  scarcely  ever 
seen  him." 

'*  No,  no,  no,  papa.  I  said,  when  he  had  done  any  kind- 
ness to  me,  he  had  kept  out  of  the  way,  and  I  had  no  chance 
to  thank  him." 

"  Very  well ;  all  your  talking  has  produced  nothing  but 
a  jumble.  I  want  to  see  this  laird  without  land,  this 
Balliol  clockmaker,  this  fisherman  schoolmaster,  this  idol 
who  is  worshipped  by  the  natives.  Let  me  see  what  he  is 
like,  first  of  all.  Ask  him  to  dinner,  and  the  Alaster  too. 
We  have  few  neighbors,  and  we  must  make  the  most  of 
them.  So  now  let  us  get  back  home  again,  child  ;  though 
it  is  almost  a  shame  to  go  indoors  on  such  a  night.  And 
you  don't  really  think  you  would  regret  being  shut  off 
from  the  world,  Yolande,  in  this  solitude  ?  " 

She  was  looking  along  the  still  loch,  and  the  wooded 
shores,  and  the  moonlit  crags  tliat  were  mirrored  in  the 
glassy  water ;  and  her  eyes  were  happy  enough. 

"  Is  it  not  like  fairyland,  papa  ?  How  could  one  regret 
living  in  such  a  beautiful  place  ?  Besides,"  she  ndded, 
cheerfully,  "have  I   not  promised  ?  *'    And  therewith  sho 


156  YOLANDE. 

hold  out  her  ungloved  hand  for  a  second  ;  and  he  under- 
stood what  she  meant ;  for  he  saw  the  three  diamonds  on 
her  engagement  ring  clear  in  the  moonlight. 


CHAPTER   XX. 

"  Melville's  welcome  noMB." 

Amid  all  the  hurry  and  bustle  of  preparing  for  the 
Twelfth,  Yolande  and  her  affairs  seemed  half  forgotten ;  and 
she,  for  one,  was  glad  to  forget  them ;  for  she  rejoiced  in 
the  activity  of  the  moment,  and  was  proud  to  see  that  the 
wheels  of  the  little  household  worked  very  smoothly.  And 
long  ago  she  had  mastered  all  the  details  about  the  luncheon 
to  be  sent  up  the  hill,  and  the  dinner  for  the  gillies,  and  what 
not ;  she  had  got  her  instructions  from  Mrs.  Graham  at  In- 
verstroy. 

In  the  midst  of  all  this,  however,  the  Master  of  Lynn 
wrote  the  following  note  to  his  sister ; 

"  Lynn  Towers,  August^  8. 
"  Deab  Polly, — I  wish  to  goodness  you  would  come 
over  here  for  a  couple  of  days  and  put  matters  straight.  I 
am  helpless.  I  go  for  a  little  quiet  to  Allt-nam-Ba.  I  would 
ask  Jack  Melville  to  interfere,  but  he  is  so  blunt- tongued  he 
would  most  likely  make  the  row  worse.  Of  course  it's  all 
Tabby :  if  ever  I  succeed  to  Lynn,  won't  I  make  the  old 
cat  skip  out  of  that  I  I  expected  my  father  to  be  cross  when 
I  suggested  something  about  Yolande,  but  I  thought  he 
would  see  the  reasonableness,  etc.  But  Tabby  heard  of  it, 
:md  then  it  was  all  '  alliance  with  demagogues,'  '  disgrace 
of  an  ancient  family,'  *  the  Leslies  selling  their  honor  for 
money,  and  other  rubbish.  I  don't  mind.  It  doesn't  hurt 
me.  I  have  mot  knocked  about  with  Jack  Melville  for 
nothing ;  I  can  distinguish  between  missiles  that  are  made 
of  air,  and  pass  by  you,  and  missiles  that  are  made  of  wood, 
and  can  cut  your  h*ead  open.  But  the  immediate  thing  is 
this  :  they  won't  call  on  the  Winterbournes,  and  this  is  not 
only  a  gross  discourtesy,  but  very  impolitic.  I  should  not 
at  all  wonder,  if  Mr.  Winterbourne  has  a  good  season  this 


yolande.  157 

year,  if  he  were  to  take  a  lease  of  Allt-nam-Ba ;  and  Duncan 
is  reckoning  on  1200  brace.  As  a  good  tenant  my  father 
ought  to  call  on  Mr.  Winterbourne,  if  for  nothing  else. 
And  of  course  matters  can  not  remain  as  they  are.  There 
must  be  an  explanation.  What  I  am  dreadfully  afraid  of 
is  that  Yolande  may  meet  Tabby  some  day,  and  that  Tabby 
may  say  something.  At  present  they  have  only  met  driving 
— I  mean  since  you  left — so  that  was  only  a  case  of  bowing. 
To  hear  Tabby  talk  would  make  you  laugh  ;  but  it  makes 
me  rather  wild,  I  confess ;  and  though  my  father  says  less, 
or  notliiug  at  all,  I  can  see  that  what  she  says  is  making  him 
more  and  more  determined.  So  do  come  along,  and  bring 
some  common-sense  into  the  atmosphere  of  the  house.  What 
on  earth  has  politics  got  to  do  with  Yolande  ?  Come  and 
fight  it  out  with  Tabby. 

"  Your  affectionate  brother, 

"  A  Leslie." 

This  was  the  answer  that  arrived  on  the  evening  of  the 
next  day : 

"  Inverstboy,  August  9.    ;l|j 

''  Deak  Archie, — You  must  have  gone  mad.  We  have 
visitors  in  the  house  already,  and  by  the  day  after  to-morrow 
we  shall  be  full  to  the  hall  door.  It  is  quite  absurd ;  Jim 
has  not  asked  a  single  bachelor  this  year,  and  every  man 
who  is  coming  is  bringing  his  wife.  Did  you  ever  hear  of 
such  a  thing  ? — really  I  can't  understand  why  women  should 
be  such  fools  :  not  a  single  invitation  refused  !  But  there 
is  one  thing — the^/  will  get  a  good  dose  of  grouse  talk  before 
they  go  souths  and  if  they  are  not  heartily  sick  of  hearing 
about  stags  it  will  be  a  wonder.  So  you  see,  my  dear  Mas- 
ter, you  must  worry  out  of  that  muddle  in  your  own  way  ; 
and  I  have  no  doubt  you  got  into  it  through  temper,  and 
being  uncivil  to  Aunt  Colquhoun.  It  is  impossible  for  me 
to  leave  Inverstroy  at  present.  But  whatever  you  do 
don't  get  spiteful,  and  go  and   run  away  with  Shena  Yan, 

"  Your  affectionate  sister, 

"  Polly." 

Well,  it  was  not  until  the  eve  of  the  Twelfth  that  Yo- 
lande gave  her  first  dinner-party,  the  delay  having  chiefly 
been  occasioned  by  their  having  to  wait  for  some  wine  from 
Inverness.  This  was  a  great  concession  on  the  part  of  her 
father ;  but  when  he  discovered  that   she  was  desperately 


158  YOLANDE. 

afraid  that  her  two  gnests,  the  Master  of  Lynn  an^  Mr. 
Melville,  would  imagine  that  the  absence  of  wine  from  the 
table  was  due  to  her  negligence  and  stupidity  as  a  house- 
keeper, he  yielded  at  once.  Nay,  in  case  they  might  throw 
any  blame  on  her  of  any  kind,  her  father  himself  wrote  to 
a  firm  in  Inverness,  laying  strict  injunctions  on  them  as  to 
brands  and  so  forth.  AH  of  which  trouble  was  quite  thrown 
away,  as  it  turned  out,  for  both  the  young  men  seemed  quite 
indifferent  about  drinking  anything;  but  the  wine  was 
there  and  Yolande  could  not  be  blamed  :  that  was  his  chief 
and  only  consideration. 

Just  before  dinner  Mr.  Winterbourne,  Yolande,  and  the 
Master  were  standing  outside  the  lodge,  looking  down  the 
wide  glen,  which  was  now  flooded  with  sunset  light.  Young 
Leslie's  eyes  were  the  eyes  of  a  deer-stalker ;  the  slightest 
movement  anywhere  instantly  attracted  them ;  and  when 
two  sheep — little  dots  they  were,  at  the  far  edge  of  the  hill 
just  above  the  lodge — suddenly  ceased  grazing  and  lifted 
their  heads,  he  knew  there  must  be  some  one  there.  The 
next  moment  a  figure  appeared  on  the  sky-line. 

"  I  suppose  that  is  Jack  Melville,"  he  said,  peevishly. 
"  I  wish  he  wouldn't  come  across  the  forest  when  he  is  up 
at  his  electric  boxes." 

"  But  does  he  do  harm  ?  "  said  Yolande.  "  He  cannot 
shoot  deer  with  copper  wire." 

"  Oh,  he's'  all  over  the  place,"  said  the  Master  of  Lynn. 
"And  there  isn't  a  keeper  or  a  watcher  who  will  remon- 
strate with  him,  and  of  course  I  can't.  He's  always  after 
his  botany,  or  his  fishing,  or  something.  The  best  thing 
about  it  is"  that  he  is  a  capital  hand  to  have  with  you  if 
there  are  any  stray  deer  about,  and  you  want  to  have  a  shot 
without  disturbing  the  herd.  He  knows  their  ways  most 
wonderfully,  and  can  tell  you  the  track  they  are  certain  to 
take." 

Meanwhile  the  object  of  these  remarks  was  coming 
down  the  hillside  at  a  swinging  pace,  and  very  soon  he  had 
crossed  the  little  bridge,  and  was  coming  up  the  path,  her- 
alding his  arrival  with  a  frank  and  careless  greeting  to  his 
friends.  He  was  a  rather  tall,  lean,  large-boned,  and  pow- 
erful-looking man  of  about  eight  and  twenty ;  somewhat 
pale  in  face,  seeing  that  he  lived  so  much  out  of  doors  ;  his 
harir  a  raven  black :  his  eyes  gray,  penetrating,  and  stead- 
fast; his  mouth  firm  and  yet  mobile  and  expressive  at 
times ;  his  forehead  square  rather  than  lofty ;  his  voice,  a 


YOLANDE.  159 

chest  voice,  was  heard  in  pleasant  and  well-modiilated  En- 
glish :  he  had  not  acquired  any  trace  of  the  higli  falsetto 
that  prevails  (or  prevailed  a  few  years  ago)  among^  the 
young  men  at  Oxford.  As  for  his  manner,  that  was  char- 
acterized chiefly  by  a  curious  simplicity  and  straightfor- 
wardness. He  seemed  to  have  no  time  to  be  self-conscious. 
When  he  spoke  to  anyone,  it  was  without  thought  or  heed 
of  any  bystander.  VVith  that  one  person  he  had  to  do. 
Him  or  her  he  seized,  with  look  and  voice ;  and  even  after 
the  most  formal  introduction  he  would  s])eak  to  you  in  the 
most  simple  and  direct  way,  as  if  life  were  not  long  enough 
to  be  wasted  in  conventionalities,  as  if  truth  were  the  main 
thing,  as  if  all  human  beings  were  perfectly  alike,  and  as  if 
there  was  no  reason  in  the  world  why  this  new  stranger 
should  not  be  put  on  the  footing  of  a  friend.  If  he  had  an 
affectation,  it  was  to  represent  himself  as  a  lazy  and  indo- 
lent person,  w^ho  believed  in  nothing,  and  laughed  at  every- 
thing, whereas  he  was  extremely  industrious  and  undefa- 
tigable,  while  there  were  certainly  two  or  three  things  that 
he  believed  in — more,  perhaps,  than  he  would  confess. 

"Here,  Miss  Winterbourne,"  said  he,  "is  the  little  vas- 
culum  I  spoke  to  you  about ;  it  has  seen  some  service,  but 
it  may  do  well  enough.  And  here  is  Bentley's  Manual^ 
and  a  Flora.  The  Flora  is  an  old  one  ;  I  brought  an  old 
one  purposely,  for  at  the  beginning  there  is  a  synopsis  of 
the  Linnaean  system  of  classification,  and  you  wHU  find  that 
the  easiest  way  of  making  out  the  name  of  a  new  plant. 
Of  course,"  he  added,  when  he  had  put  the  vasculum  and 
the  books  on  the  Avindow-sill  and  come  back,  "  when  you 
get  further  on,  when  you  begin  to  see  how  all  these  plants 
have  grown  to  be  what  they  are,  when  you  come  lo  study 
the  likenesses  and  relationships — and  unless  you  mean  to 
go  so  far  you  are  only  wasting  time  to  begin — you  will 
follow  Jussieu  and  De  Candolle  ;  but  in  the  meantime  you 
will  find  the  Linnaean  system  a  very  dodgy  instrument 
when  you  are  in  a  difticulty.  Then,  another  thing — mind, 
I  am  assuming  that  you  mean  business ;  if  you  want  to 
frivvle,  and  pick  pretty  posies,  I  shut  my  door  on  you,  but, 
I  say,  if  you  mean  business,  I  have  told  Mrs.  Bell  you 
are  to  have  access  to  my  herbarium,  whether  I'm  there  or 
not." 

But  here  Yolande  began  to  laugh. 

"  Oh  yes,  that  is  so  probable  !  "  said  she.  "  Mrs.  Bell 
allowing  me  to  go  into  your  study !  " 


160  YOLANDE. 

"  Mrs.  Bell  and  I  understand  each  other  very  well,  I 
assuie  you,"  he  said,  gravely.  "We  are  only  two  augurs, 
who  wink  at  each  other ;  or  rather  we  shut  our  eyes  to 
each  other's  humbug." 

"Why,  Jack,  she  means  to  buy  back  Monaglen  for 
you  !  "  the  Master  of  Lynn  exclaimed. 

*'  I  know  she  has  some  romantic  scheme  of  that  sort  in 
her  head,"  he  said,  frankly.  "  It  is  quite  absurd.  What 
should  I  do  with  Monaglen  ?  However,  in  the  meantime 
I  have  made  pretty  free  use  of  the  old  lady's  money  at 
Gress  ;  and  she  is  highly  pleased,  for  she  was  fond  of  my  fa- 
ther's family,  and  she  likes  to  hear  me  spoken  well  of,  and 
you  can  so  easily  purchase  gratitude — especially  with  some- 
body else's  money.  You  see,  it  works  well  all  round.  Mr& 
Bell,  who  is  an  honest,  shrewd,  good,  kindly  woman,  sees 
that  her  charity  is  administrated  with  some  care  ;  the  people 
around — but  especially  the  children — are  benefited  ;  I  have 
leisure  for  any  little  experiments  and  my  idle  rambles  ;  and 
if  Mrs.  Bell  and  I  hoodwink  each  other,  it  is  done  very 
openly,  and  there  is  no  great  harm." 

"  She  was  very  indignant,"  said  young  Leslie,  laughing, 
"  when  you  wouldn't  have  your  name  put  on  the  tablet  in 
the  schoolhouse." 

"  What  tablet  ?  "  said  Yolande. 

"Oh  a  tablet  saying  that  Mr.  Melville  had  built  the 
school  and  presented  it  to  the  people  of  Gi-ess." 

"And  I  never  contributed  a  farthing !  "  he  said.  " She 
did  the  whole  thing.  Well,  now,  that  shows  how  artificial 
the  position  is;  and,  necessarily,  it  won't  last.  We  have 
for  so  long  been  hypocrites  for  the  public  good — let  us  say 
it  was  for  the  public  good  ;  but  there  must  come  an  end." 

"  Why,  Jack,  if  you  leave  Gress  you'll  fairly  break  the 
ol.d  dame's  heart.  And  as  for  the  neighborhood — it  will  be 
like  the  going  away  of  Aikendrum." 

"  Who  was  that  ?  "  said  Yolande. 

"  I  am  sure  I  don't  know.  Mrs.  Bell  will  sing  the  sonc; 
for  you,  if  you  ask  her  ;  she  knows  all  those  old  things.  I 
don't  know  who  the  gentleman  was,  but  they  made  a  rare 
fuss  about  his  going  away. 

"  *  'Bout  him  the  carles  were  gabbin', 
The  braw  laddies  sabbin', 
And  a'  tlie  lassies  greetin', 
For  that  Aikendrum's  awa'.*  ** 


YOLAIVDE.  IGl 

"  The  dinner  is  ready,  madam,"  said  a  soft-voiced  and 
pretty  Highland  maid-servant,  appearing  at  the  door;  and 
Yolande's  heart  sank  within  her.  She  summoned  up  her 
courage  nevertheless ;  she  walked  into  the  room  sedately, 
and  took  her  place  at  the  head  of  the  table  with  much 
graciousness,  though  she  was  in  reality  very  nervous  and 
terribly  anxious  about  the  result  of  this  wild  experiment. 
Well,  she  need  not  have  been  anxious.  The  dinner  was 
excellently  cooked,  and  very  fairly  served.  And  if  those 
two  younger  men  seemed  quite  indifferent  as  to  what  they 
ate  and  drank,  and  much  more  interested  in  a  discussion 
about  certain  educational  matters,  at  least  Mr.  Winter- 
bourne  noted  and  approved  ;  and  greatly  comforted  was;- 
she  from  time  to  time  to  hear  him  say:  "  Yolande,  this  is 
capital  hare  soup ;  why  can't  we  get  hare  soup  cooked  in 
this  way  in  the  south  ?  "  Or,  "  Yolande,  these  are  most 
delicious  trout.  Mr.  Melville's  catching,  I  suppose  ?  It 
seems  to  me  you  have  stumbled  on  an  uncommonly  good 
cook."  Or,  "What?  Another  robbery  of  Mrs.  Bell's 
poultry  yard  ?  Well,  they're  fine  birds' — noble,  noble.  We 
must  send  her  some  grouse  to-morrow,  Yolande." 

And  then  outside  there  was  a  sudden  and  portentous 
growl  of  bass  drones ;  and  then  the  breaking  away  into  the 
shrill  clear  music  of  a  quickstep ;  and  through  the  blue 
window-panes  they  could  see  in  the  dusk  the  tall,  tightly 
built  figure  of  young  Duncan,  the  pipes  over  his  shoulder, 
marching  erect  and  proud  up  and  down  the  gravel-path. 
That  was  the  proper  way  to  hear  the  pipes — away  up  there 
in  the  silence  of  the  hills,  amid  the  gatliering  gloom  of  the 
night  ;  and  now  they  would  grow  louder  and  shriller  as  he 
drew  near,  and  now  they  would  grow  fainter  and  fainter 
as  he  passed  by,  while  all  around  them,  whether  the  music 
was  faint  or  shrill,  was  the  continuous  hushed  murmur  of 
the  mountain  streams. 

"  I  told  Duncan,"  said  Yolande  to  the  Master,  "  that 
it  was  a  shame  he  should  keep  all  his  playing  for  the  shep- 
herds in  the  bothy.  And  he  told  me  that  he  very  well 
knew  the  '  Hills  of  Lynn." 

Young  Leslie  regarded  her  with  an  odd  kind  of  smile. 

*'  You  don't  think  that  is  the  '  Hills  of  Lynn,'  do  you, 
Yolande?" 

"Is  it  not?     I  have  heard  very  few." 

"No;  I  am  not  first  favorite  to-niorht.  It  isn't  the 
♦Hills  of  Lynn.'     That  is  'Melville's  Welcome  Humo.'  " 


I(i2  YOLANDE. 

Yolande  looked  surprised,  but  not  in  any  way  sjuilty. 

'*  I  assure  you,  MisS  Winterbourne,"  said  JaekMelville, 
pleasantly  enough,  "  that  I  don't  feel  at  all  hurt  or  insulted. 
I  know  Duncan  means  no  sarcasm.  He  is  quite  well  aware 
that  we  haven't  had  a  home  to  welcome  us  this  many  a  day  ; 
but  he  is  not  playing  the  quickstep  out  of  irony.  He  and 
I  are  too  old  friends  for  that." 

"  Oh,  I  am  sure  he  does  not  mean  anything  like  that," 
said  Yolande.  "  It  is  a  great  compliment  he  means,  is  it 
not?" 

Then  coffee  came  ;  and  cigars  and  pipes  were  produced 
and  as  Yolande  had  no  dread  of  tobacco  smoke,  they  all 
remained  together,  drawing  in  their  chairs  to  the  brisk  lire 
of  wood  and  peat,  and  forming  a  very  friendly,  snug,  and 
comfortable  little  circle.  Nor  was  their  desultory  chatting 
about  educational  projects  solely ;  nor,  on  the  other  hand, 
was  it  confined  to  grouse  and  the  chances  of  the  weather ; 
it  rambled  over  many  and  diverse  subjects,  while  always, 
from  time  to  time,  could  be  heard  in  the  distance  (for  Dun- 
can had  retired  to  rt;gale  his  friends  in  the  bothy)  the  faint 
echoes  of  *'  The  Seventy-ninth's  Farewell  to  Gibraltar,"  or 
"  Mackenzie's  Farewell  to  Sutherland,"  or  "  The  Barren 
Rocks  of  Aden/'  with  occasionally  the  sad  slow  wail  of  a 
Lament — "Lord  Lovat's,"  or  "Mackintosh's,"  or  "Mao 
Crimmon's."  And  as  M»*.  Melville  proved  to  be  a  very 
ready  talker  (as  he  lay  back  there  in  an  easy-chair,  with 
the  warm  rays  of  the  fire  lighting  up  his  fine  intellectual 
features  and  clear  and  penetrating  gray  eyes),  Mr.  Winter- 
bourne  had  an  abundant  opportunity  of  studying  this  new 
friend ;  and  so  far  from  observing  in  him  any  of  the  brow- 
beating and  brusqueness  he  had  heard  of,  on  the  contrary, 
be  discovered  the  most  ample  tolerance,  and  more  than 
that,  a  sort  of  large-hearted  humanity  a  sympathy,  a  sincerrty 
and  directness  of  speech,  that  begun  to  explain  to  him  why 
Mr.  Melville  of  Gress  was  such  a  favorite  with  those  people 
about  there.  He  seemed  to  assume  that  the  person  he  was 
talking  to  was  his  friend  ;  and  that  it  was  useless  to  waste 
time  in  formalities  of  conversation.  His  manner  toward 
Yolande  (her  father  thought)  was  characterized  by  just  a 
little  too  much  of  indifference  :  but  then  he  was  a  school- 
master, and  not  in  the  habit  of  attaching  importance  to 
the  opinions  of  young  people. 

It  was  really  a  most  enjoyable,  confidential,  pleasant 
evening;  but  it  had  to  come  to  an  end  ;  and  when  the  two 


YOLANDE.  163 

young  men  left,  both  Yolnnde  and  her  fathei  accompanied 
them  to  the  door.  The  moon  was  risen  now,  and  the  long 
wide  glen  looked  beautiful  enough. 

"  WelL,  now,  Mr  Melville,"  said  Mr.  Winterbourne,  as 
they  were  going  away,  "  whenever  you  have  an  idle  even- 
ing* I  hope  you  will  remember  us,  and  take  pity  on  us." 

"You  may  see  too  much  of  me." 

"  That  is  impossible,"  said  Yolande,  quickly ;  and  then 
she  added,  very  prettily,  "You  know,  Mr.  Melville,  if  you 
come  often  enough  you  will  find  it  quite  natural  that  Dun- 
can should  play  for  you  *  Melville's  Welcome  Home.'  " 

He  stood  for  a  moment  uncertain  ;  it  was  the  first  sign 
of  embarrassment  he  had  shown  that  night." 

"Well,"  said  he,  "that  is  the  most  friendly  thing  that 
has  been  said  to  me  for  many  a  day.  Who  could  resist 
such  an  invitation  ?     Good-night — good-night." 


CHAPTER  XXT. 

NEIGHBORS. 


As  it  turned  out,  John  Shortlands  could  not  come  north 
till  the  20th  ;  so  Mr.  Winterbourne  asked  young  Leslie  to 
shoot  with  him  for  the  first  week,  and  the  invitation  had 
been  gratefully  accepted.  The  obligation,  however,  was  not 
all  on  one  side.  The  Master  of  Lynn  was  possessed  of  a 
long  and  familiar  experience  of  the  best  and  swiftest 
methods  of  getting  the  birds  sent  to  a  good  market;  and  he 
made  his  arrangements  in  this  direction  with  a  business-like 
forethought  which  amused  Mr.  Winterbourne,  who  ex- 
prijssed  some  whimsical  scruples  over  his  being  transformed 
into  a  game-dealer. 

"  I  don't  look  at  it  in  that  light  at  all,"  the  Master  said, 
coolly.  "  Game  is  the  only  thing  land  like  that  will  produce  ; 
and  I  like  to  know  what  it  is  worth.  I  think  I  can  guar- 
antee that  the  hire  of  the  gillies  and  ponies  and  panniers 
won't  cost  you  a  farthing." 

"  You  should  not  be  so  anxious  to  have  your  ow^n  moor 
hard  shot,"  said  Mr.  Winterbourne,  with  a  smile. 

"  But  I  am,"  said  this  shrewd  young  man.     "  There  is  no 


^^  YOLANDE. 

danger,  on  ground  like  this,  of  too  small  a  breeding  stock 
being  left.  It  is  all  the  other  way.  What  I  am  afraid  of  is 
too  big  a  stock,  and  tlie  disease  coming  along.  That  is  a 
terrible  business.  You  are  congratulating  yourself  on  the 
number  of  birds,  and  on  their  fine  condition  ;  and  some 
pleasant  morning  you  wake  up  to  find  the  place  swept 
clean." 

"  Not  in  one  night  ?  " 

"  Well,  a  day  or  two  will  do  it.  This  epidemic  is  quite 
different  from  the  ordinary  mild  forms  of  disease,  where 
you  can  see  the  birds  pining  away  to  death.  Instead  of 
that  you  find  them  all  about  among  the  heather,  dead,  but 
perfectly  plump  and  well-looking,  not  a  sign  of  disease  out- 
side or  in.  So,  if  you  please,  Mr.  Winterbourne,  don't  havo 
any  scruples  about  turning  on  Duncan  if  you  think  we  are 
not  doing  well  enough.  The  bigger  consignment  we  can 
send  off  the  better." 

Now  one  consequence  of  this  arrangement  was  that  when 
Yolande,  in  the  morning,  had  said  "  Good-by,  papa."  and 
"  Good-by,  Archie,"  and  given  each  of  them  a  fiower  or  some 
such  trifle  (for  in  that  part  of  the  country  the  presentation  of 
a  small  gift,  no  matter  what,  to  any  one  going  shooting,  is 
supposed  to  bring  good  luck),  and  when  she  had  seen  that 
luncheon  was  quite  prepared  to  be  sent  up  the  hill  when 
the  first  pony  left,  she  found  herself  with  the  whole  day  be- 
fore her,  with  no  companion,  and  with  no  occupation  save 
that  of  wandering  down  the  glen  or  up  one  of  the  hillsides 
in  search  of  new  flowers.  It  is  not  to  be  wondered  at,  then, 
that  she  should  seek  some  variety  by  occasionally  driving 
into  Gress,  when  the  dog-cart  was  taking  the  game  shot  the 
day  before  to  Foyers,  and  spending  a  few  hours  with  Mrs. 
Bell  until  the  trap  came  back  to  pick  her  up  again.  Foi* 
one  thing,  when  she  discovered  some  plants  unknown  to 
her,  she  found  it  was  much  easier  to  consult  Mr.  Melville's 
herbarium  than  to  puzzle  over  the  descriptions  of  the  vari- 
ous species  in  the  Flora  ;  and  as  he  was  generally  occapied 
either  in  the  schoolhouse  or  in  his  laboratory,  she  did  not 
interfere  with  him.  But  'the  truth  is,  she  liked  this  shrewd, 
kindly,  wise  old  Scotchwoman,  who  was  the  only  one  in 
the  neighborhood  who  took  any  notice  of  her.  The  people 
at  the  Towers  had  neither  called  nor  made  any  other  over- 
tures. And  as  Mrs,  Bell's  thoughtfulness  and  kindness  took 
the  substantial  form  of  sending  up  to  Allt-nam-Ba,  pretty 
nearly  every  day,  some  article  or  articles  likely  to  be  of  use 


YOLANDE.  165 

to  the  young  housekeeper,  of  course  Yolande  had  to  drive 
m  to  thank  her. 

"  Mrs.  Bell,"  said  she,  one  warm  and  sunny  afternoon, 
when  they  were  together  in  the  garden  (this  good  woman 
made  awful  havoc  among  her  flowers  when  Yolande  came 
to  see  her),  "  who  was  Aikendrum  ?  " 

"  A  young  lad  who  went  away  for  a  sodger — so  the  song 
says." 

"  And  every  one  was  so  sorry,  is  it  not  so  ?  "  said  this 
tall  young  lady,  who  already  had  her  hands  full  of  flowers. 
"  The  Master  was  saying  that  if  Mr.  Melville  leaves  here, 
every  one  will  be  quite  as  sorry — it  will  be  like  the  going 
away  of  Aikendrum." 

"  W  y  should  he  go  ?  "  said  Mrs.  Bell,  sharply.  "  Why 
should  he  not  stay  among  his  own  people — yes,  and  on  land 
that  may  be  his  own  one  day  ?  "  And  then  she  added,  more 
gently  :  '*  It  is  not  a  good  thing  for  one  to  be  away  among 
strangers  ;  there's  many  a  sore  heart  comes  o'  that.  It's 
not  only  them  that  are  left  behind ;  sometimes  -it's  the  one 
that  goes  away  that  is  sorrowfu'  enough  about  it.  I  dare 
say,  now,  ye  never  heard  o'  an  old  Scotch  song  they  call 
*  Tlie  sun  rises  bright  in  France  '  ?  " 

"  Oh,  will  you  sing  it  for  me  ?  "  said  Yolande,  eagerly  ; 
for  indeed  the  reputation  of  this  good  dame  for  the  singing 
of  those  old  Scotch  songs  was  wide  in  that  district,  though 
it  was  not  every  one  whom  she  would  honor.  And  iier 
singing  was  strangely  effective.  She  had  but  little  of  a 
voice ;  she  crooned  rather  than  sang  ;  but  she  could  give 
the  words  a  curiously  pathetic  quality  ;  and  she  had  tlie 
natural  gift  of  knowing  what  particular  airs  she  could  make 
tell. 

She  laid  her  hand  on  Yolande's  arm,  as  if  to  ask  for  at- 
tention : — 

"  *  The  sun  rises  bright  in  France, 
And  fair  sets  he  ; 
But  he  has  tint  the  blink  he  had 

In  my  ain  countrie. 
It's  no  my  ain  ruin 

That  weets  aye  my  e'e, 
But  the  dear  Marie  I  left  behind 
Wi'  sweet  bairnies  three.' 

Ye've  no  heard  that  before  ?  " 

"Oh  no.  It  is  a  very  sad  air.  But  why  Marie? — that 
is  French." 

"  Well  ye  see,  the  French  and  the  Scotch  were  very 


166  YOLANDE. 

thick*  in  former  days,  and  Marie  was  a  common  name  in 
Scotland.  I  am  told  they  spoke  nothing  but  Frejich  at 
Holyrood  ;  and  the  young  gentlemen  they  were  all  for 
joining  the  French  service — " 

"  But  is  there  no  more  of  tlie  song,  Mrs.  Bell  ?  " 
"  Oh,  ay,  there  are  other  two  verses.     But  it's  no  for 
an  auld  wife  like  me  to  be  singing  havers. " 
"  Please." 
"Very  well,  then : 

"  '  The  bud  comes  back  to  summer, 
And  the  blossom  to  the  tree, 
But  I  win  back,  oh,  never, 

To  my  ahi  countrie. 
Gladness  comes  to  many, 

Sorrow  conies  to  me, 
As  I  look  o'er  the  wide  ocean 
To  my  ain  countrie. 

"  *  Fu'  bienly  low'd  my  ain  hearth, 

And  smiled  my  ain  Marie  : 
Oh,  I've  left  my  heart  behind 

In  my  ain  countrie  ! 
Oh,  I'm  leal  to  liigh  heaven, 

Wliich  aj^e  was  leal  to  me, 
And  it's  there  I'll  meet  ye  a'  soon, 

Frae  my  ain  countrie.'  '  t 

"  It  is  a  beautiful  air — but  so  sad,"  Yolande  said.  And 
then  she  added,  slyly,  "And  now  '  Aikendrum.' " 

But  Mrs.  Bell  doggedly  refused, 

*'  I  tell  ye  it's  no  for  an  auld  wife  like  me  to  be  fashing 
with  such  blethers  ;  it's  for  young  lassies  when  they're  out 
at  the  herding.  And  I  hope,  now,  that  ye  are  no  likely  to 
put  any  'Aikendrum'  notions  into  Mr,  Melville's  head. 
Let  him  stay  where  he  is.  Maybe  we'll  get  him  a  better 
stance  X  in  the  countryside  soon  :  stranger  things  have 
come  to  pass." 

"  I  ?  "  said  Yolande  ;  "  is  it  likely  I  should  wish  him  to 
go  away  ?  Perhaps  you  do  not  know,  then,  that  I  am 
going  to  live  in  this  neighborhood — no  ?  " 

"  Oh,  indeed ;  is  that  possible,  noo  ?"  said  Mrs.  Bell — and 
she  would  say  no  more.  She  was  herself  most  kindly  and 
communicable  ;'  but  always  she  preserved  a  certain  reserve 
of  manner  in  a  case  like  this.  However,  Yolande  was  quite 
frank. 

*•  Thick — intimate. 

t  The  words  of  this  song  are  by  Allan  Cunningham ;  the  music  ii 
an  old  Celtic  air.  J  Stance — holding  or  position. 


YOLANDE.  167 

"  Oh  yes,"  said  the  young  lady,  cheerfully.  "  Of  course 
I  must  live  here  when  I  am  married  ;  and  of  course,  too,  I 
look  forward  to  seeing  Mr.  Melville  always.  He  will  be 
our  nearest  friend — almost  the  only  one.  But  it  is  so  diffi- 
cult to  catch  him.  Either  lie  is  in  the  school,  or  he  is  up  at 
the  water-wheel — why,  this  moment,  now  if  I  could  see 
him,  I  would  ask  hira\o  drive  out  to  Allt-nam-Ba,  when  the 
carriage  comes  and  stay  to  dine  with  us." 

"  I  wish  ye  would — eh,  I  wish  ye  would,  my  dear  young 
leddy  !  "  the'  old  dame  exclaimed.  "  For  the  way  he  goes 
on  is  just  distressing.  Not  a  settled  proper  meal  will  he  sit 
down  to  ;  nothing  but  a  piece  of  cold  meat  aye  to  be  stand- 
ing by.  There  it  is — in  there  among  they  smelling  chemi- 
cal things — day  and  night  there  must  aye  be  the  same  thing 
on  the  side  table  waiting  for  him — some  cold  meat,  a  bit  o* 
bread,  and  a  wee,  scrim'pit,  half-pint  bottle  o'  that  fushion- 
less  claret  wine  that  is  not  one  preen  point  better  than  vin- 
egar. And  then  when  he  gives  the  bairns  a  day's  holiday, 
and  starts  away  for  Loch-na-lairige — a  place  that  no  one 
has  ever  won  to  but  the  shepherd — not  a  thing  in  his  pocket 
but  a  piece  o'  bread  and  cheese.  How  he  keeps  up  his 
strength — a  big-bonod  man  like  that — passes  me.  If  ye  want 
to  anger  him,  that's  the  way  to  do  it — compel  him  to  sit  doon 
to  a  respectable  meal,  and  get  the  lasses  to  prepare  a  few 
things  for  him  in  a  clever  kind  o'  way,  as  ye  would  get  in 
any  Christian  house.  Well,  many  a  time  I  think  if  that's 
the  mainner  they  train  young  men  at  Oxford  they  would 
be  better  brought  up  at  another  place.  And  what  is  the 
use  of  it?  His  means  are  far  beyond  his  wants — I  take  care 
there  is  no  wastefulness  in  the  housekeeping,  for  one  thing ; 
and  even  if  they  were  not,  is  there  not  my  money  ? — and  a 
proud  woman  1  would  be  that  day  that  he  would  take  a 
penny  of  it." 

At  this  moment  the  object  of  these  remarks  came  out  of 
the  laboratory — a  small  building  standing  at  right  angles 
with  the  house — and  he  was  buttoning  his  coat  as  if  he  had 
just  put  it  on, 

"  Good-afternoon,  Miss  Winterbourne,"  said  he,  and  he 
seemed  very  pleased  to  see  her  as  he  took  her  hand  for  a 
second.  "  I  thought  I  heard  your  voice.  And  I  have  got 
a  word  of  approval  for  you." 

"  Oh,  indeed  ?"  said  she,  smiling;  for  occasionally  his 
schoolmaster  air  and  his  condescending  frankness  amused 
her. 


168  YOLANDE, 

"  I  had  a  look  over  my  herbarium  last  night :  you  have 
been  veiy  careful." 

"  You  thought  I  should  not  be  ?  " 

'^  I  did  not  know.  But  if  there  had  been  any  confusion 
or  mischief  done,  I  should  not  have  mentioned  it — no,  prob- 
ably I  should  have  let  you  have  your  will ;  only  I  would 
never  have  allowed  any  one  else  to  go  near  the  place ;  so 
you  see  you  would  have  been  inflicting  injury  on  an  un- 
known number  of  persons  in  the  future." 

"  But  how  wrong  not  to  tell  me  ?  "  she  exclaimed. 

**  Oh,  you  have  been  careful  enough.  Indeed,  you  have 
taken  unnecessary  trouble.  It  is  quite  enough  if  the  differ- 
ent genera  are  kept  separate ;  it  is  not  necessary  that  the 
species  should  follow  in  the  same  order  as  they  are  in  the 
Flora.    You  must  not  give  yourself  that  trouble  again.*' 

"  When  the  dog-cart  comes  along,"  said  she,  "  I  hope 
you  will  drive  out  with  me  to  Allt-nam-Ba,  and  spend  the 
evening  with  us." 

"  You  are  very  kind." 

"  Ko,  I  am  scheming,"  she  said.  "  The  truth  is  the 
fishmonger  at  Inverness  has  disappointed  me — no,  no,  no, 
Mrs.  Bell,  on  the  whole  he  has  been  very  good  ;  but  this 
time  there  is  a  mistake;  and  do  you  think,  Mr.  Melville,  if 
you  are  taking  your  rod  you  could  get  me  a  few  trout  out 
of  the  loch  on  the  way  home  ?  Is  it  too  much  to  ask  ?  " 

He  glanced  at  the  sky.  "  I  think  we  might  manage  it," 
said  he,  "  though  it  is  rather  clear.  There  may  be  a  breeze 
on  the  loch  ;  there  generally  is  up  there.  But  what  we 
ought  to  do  is  to  set  out  now  and  walk  it ;  and  let  the  trap 
pick  us  up  at  the  loch.     Can  you  walk  so  far?  " 

"  I  should  think  so  !  "  said  Yolande.  "  And  be  delighted 

*'  Well,  I  will  go  and  get  my  rod  and  basket.  Then  as 
we  go  along  I  can  tell  you  the  names  of  any  plants  you 
don't  know  ;  or  answer  any  questions  that  may  be  puzzling 
you.  Don't  be  afraid  to  ask.  I  like  it.  It  helps  to  keep 
one's  recollections  cle;ir.  And  I  never  laugh  at  ignorance; 
it  is  the  pretense  of  knowledge  that  is  contemptible." 

Tiiey  did  not,  however,  talk  botany  exclusively  as  they 
walked  away  from  Gress  on  tliis  beautiful  afternoon  ;  for  he 
very  speedily  discovered  that  she  knew  far  more  about  him 
and  his  family  and  his  affairs  than  he  could  possibly  have 
imagined. 

'*  The  days  in  Egypt  were  long,"  she  explained,  '*  and 


YOLANDE.  169 

the  Master  used  to  tell  me  all  about  this  neighborhood,  un- 
til, when  I  came  to  it,  everything  seemed  quite  familiar." 
"  You  have  been  a  great  traveller,"  he  said. 
"  Yes,  we  have  travelled  about  a  good  deal.    And  you  ?  " 
"  Not  much.    I  think  I  am  too  lazy.    The  kind  of  travel- 
ling that  I  enjoy  is  to  sit  out  in  the  garden   of  a  summer 
evening,  in  an  easy-chair,  and  to  watch  the  sunset,  and  per- 
haps the  moon  slowly  rising — " 

"  But  you  said  travelling,"  she  said. 

"  Well,  you  are  hurling  along  at  a  rate  of  68,000  miles 
an  hour  ;  isn't  that  quick  enough  for  anything  ?  "  he  said 
laughing. 

"  It  is  a  cheap  way  of  travelling,"  said  she,  with  a  smile. 

"  That  is  why  it  suits  me." 

"  But  you  don't  see  much." 

"  No  !  Not  when  you  can  watch  the  stars  appear  one 
by  one  over  the  hill-tops  ?  Don't  you  think  they  are  as  in- 
teresting as  the  shops  in  the  Palais  Royal  ?  They  are  more 
mysterious,  at  all  events.  It  does  seem  odd,  you  know, 
when  you  think  of  the  numbers  of  human  beings  all  over  the 
world-^the  small,  tiny  creatures — sticking  up  their  little  tin 
tubes  at  the  midnight  sky,  and  making  guesses  at  what  the 
stars  are  made  of,  and  how  they  came  to  be  there.  It  is  a 
pathetic  kind  of  thing  to  think  about.  I  fancy  I  must  try  a 
'  Zulu'  and  a  *  March  Brown.'  " 

This  startling  no7i  sequitur  was  caused  by  the  fact  that 
by  this  time  they  had  reached  the  loch,  and  that  he  fre- 
quently thought  aloud  in  this  fashion,  heedless  of  any  in- 
congruity and  heedless  also  of  his  companion.  He  sat  down 
on  a  lump  of  granite,  and  took  out  his  tly-book. 

''  Won't  you  walk  on  to  the  lodge,  Miss  Winterbourne  ?  " 
said  he.  "  I  am  going  to  drift  down  in  the  boat,  and  it  will 
be  slow  work  for  you." 

"  I  will  wait  on  the  bank,"  said  she,  "  and  watch.  Do 
you  not  undervStand  that  I  am  seriously  interested  ?  " 

"  Then  you  will  see  whether  I  get  any.  It  is  a  sport," 
he  added,  as  he  was  selecting  the  flies,  "  that  there  is  less  to 
be  said  against  than  shooting,  I  imagine.  I  don't  like  the 
idea  of  shooting  birds,  especially  after  I  have  missed  one  or 
two.  Birds  are  such  harmless  creatures.  But  the  lish  is 
different — the  fish  is  making  a  murderous  snap  at  an  in- 
nocent fly,  or  what  he  thinks  to  be  a  fly,  when  a  little  bit  ol 
steel  catcher  him  in  the  very  act.  It  serves  him  right  from 
the  moral  point  of  view." 


170  YOLANDE. 

**But  surely  he  is  justified  in  trying  to  get  his  dinner," 
said  she.     ''  Just  as  you  are  doing  now." 

"  Well,  I  will  put  on  a  jay's  wing  also,"  said  he,  *'  and  if 
they  don't  like  one  or  other  of  those  nice  wholesome  little 
dishes,  we  must  try  them  with  something  else." 

As  it  happened,  however,  the  trout  seemed  disposed  tc 
rise  to  anything,  for  it  was  a  good  fishing  afternoon — warm, 
with  a  light  wdnd  rufiiing  the  surface  of  the  loch.  By  the 
time  the  dogcart  came  along  he  had  got  close  on  two  dozen 
in  his  basket,  averaging  about  three  to  the  pound,  so  that  a 
selection  from  them  would  do  very  well  for  dinner  ;  and 
when  he  got  ashore,  and  got  into  the  trap,  Yolande  thanked 
him  for  them  very  prettily,  while  he,  on  the  other  hand, 
said  that  the  obligation  was  all  on  his  side. 

"  Why  do  you  not  come  oftener,  then  ?  "  she  said  as 
they  were  driving  along  up  the  wide  glen. 

*'  I  might  be  depriving  some  one  else  of  the  use  of  the 
boat,"  he  answered. 

*'  No,  no ;  how  can  that  be  ?  "  she  insisted.  "  They  are 
all  day  up  the  hill.  Why  do  you  not  come  to  the  loch  every 
afternoon,  and  then  come  in  and  spend  the  evenings  with 
us?  Mrs.  Bell  says  you  do  very  wrong  about  your  food, 
not  having  proper  meals  at  proper  tii»es.  Now  we  are 
always  very  punctual ;  and  if  you  came  in  and  dined  with 
us,  it  would  teach  you  good  habits." 

"  You  are  too  kind.  Miss  Winterbourne,"  said  he. 
*•  But  please  don't  think  that  1  have  forgotten  the  invitation 
yuu  gave  me  the  other  night.  I  could  not  be  so  ungrateful 
as  tliat." 

"  And  what  is  the  use  of  rememl)ering,  if  you  do  not 
a';t  on  it  ?  "  said  she  ;  but  she  could  not  lecture  the  school- 
iiKister  any  further  just  then,  for  they  had  arrived  at  the 
wooden  bridge,  and  she  had  to  let  the  cob  go  very  cautiously 
over  that  primitive  structure. 

After  dinner  that  evening  Mr.  Winterbourne  begged  to 
be  excused  for  a  short  time,  as  he  had  a  letter  to  write  that 
he  wished  posted  at  Whitebridge  the  same  night.  This  was 
the  letter :  • 

Allt-nam-Ba,  August  15. 

"  Dear  Shortlands, — I  am  sending  you  a  couple  of 

brace  of  birds,  and  would  send  you  more  but  that  I  can  see 

that  my  future  son-in-law  regards  these  bequests  with  great 

disfavor ;  and   as  it   is  in  my  interest   that  he   is  trying  to 


YOLANDE.  171 

make  as  niucli  as  he  can  out  of  the  shooting,  I  don't  like  to 
interfere  with  his  economical  exertions.  Prudence  in  a 
young  man  should  be  encouraged  rather  than  checked.  I 
hope  you  will  not  be  later  than  the  20th.  I  shall  be  glad  to 
have  you  here.  The  fact  is,  I  have  been  torturing  myself 
with  doubts  and  questions  which  may  appear  to  you  uncalled 
for.  I  hope  they  are  uncalled  for.  Indeed,  to  all  appear- 
ance, everything  is  going  on  well.  Yolande  is  in  the 
brightest  spirits,  and  is  delighted  with  the  place,  and  young 
Leslie  seems  very  proud  of  her  and  affectionate,  The  only 
thing  is  whether  I  should  not  have  put  the  whole  facts  of 
the  case  before  him  at  the  outset,  and  whether  I  am  not 
bound  in  honor  to  do  so,  now,  before  the  serious  step  of 
marriage  is  taken.  I  don't  know.  I  am  afraid  to  do  it,  and 
afraid  of  what  might  happen  if  I  remain  silent.  There  is  a 
young  man  here,  a  Mr.  Melville,  who  was  Leslie's  tutor,  and 
who  remains  his  intimate  associate  and  friend.  He  is  very 
liighly  respected  about  here,  and,  as  I  judge,  seems  to 
deserve  the  high  opinion  every  one  has  of  him.  What  I  am 
thinking  of  now  is  the  propriety  of  laying  the  whole  affair 
before  him,  as  Leslie's  nearest  friend.  He  knows  the  other 
members  of  the  family  also.  I  could  trust  him  to  give  an 
honest  opinion ;  and  if  he,  knowing  all  the  circumstances 
of  tiie  case,  and  knowing  Leslie,  and  the  ways  of  the  family, 
were  to  think  it  unnecessary  to  break  silence,  then  I  might 
be  fairly  justified  in  letting  the  thing  be  as  it  is.  Do  you 
think  so  ?  But  you  will  answer  this  question  in  person — 
not  later  than  the  20th,  I  hope. 

"  For  a  long  time  I  thought  that  if  only  Yolande  were 
married  and  settled  quietly  in  the  country  there  would  be 
no  further  need  for  anxiety;  but  now  1  can  not  keep  from 
speculating  on  other  possibilities,  and  wondering  whether  it 
would  not  be  better  to  prevent  any  future  ground  of  com- 
plaint and  consequent  unhappiuess  by  telling  the  whole 
truth  now.  Surely  that  might  be  done  without  letting  Yo- 
lande know.     Why  should  she  ever  know  ? 

"  If  you  can  leave  on  the  night  of  the  18th  you  will 
reach  Inverness  next  forenoon,  and  catch  the  3  p.m.  boat 
down  the  Caledonian  Canal.  Most  likely  you  will  find 
Yolande  waiting  for  you  at  the  pier ;  she  likes  driving. 
Our  prospects  for  the  20th  are  fairly  good  :  there  is  more 
cover  black  game  up  those  mountainous  corries  than  I  could 
have  expected.  We  shoot  all  we  find,  as  they  don't  stop 
liere  through  the  winter.     On  the  12lh  we   had    sixty-eight 


172  YOLANDE.   . 

brace  grouse,  one  ptarmigan,  one  snipe,  and  a  few  mountain 
hares;  on  the  13th,  seventy-one  brace  grouse,  and  also  some 
hares  ;  yesterday  it  was  wet  and  wild,  and  we  only  went  out 
for  an  hour  or  so  in  the  afternoon — nine  brace;  to-day  was  fine, 
and  we  got  sixty-two  brace  grouse  and  one  and  a  half  brace 
ptarmigan.  Young  Leslie  is  about  the  best  all  round  shot 
I  have  ever  seen  — cool  and  certain.  I  think  I  get  more 
nervous  year -by  year  ;  but  then  he  is  a  capital  hand  at 
redeeming  mistakes,  and  that  gives  me  a  little  more  con- 
fidence. A  stag  and  three  hinds  passed  close  by  the  lodge 
late  last  night — at  least  so  the  shepherds  say. 

"  I  know  you  won't  mind  my  asking  you  to  bring  some 
little  trifle  or  other  for  Yolande,  just  to  show  that  you  were 
thinking  of  her.     She  will  meet  you  at  Foyers  pier. 

*'  Yours  faithfully,  G.  R.  Winterboubne." 


CHAPTER  XXII. 

*'IM  WALD  UND  AUF  DEB  HEIDE." 

Next  morning  there  was  a  sudden  call  on  Mr.  Winter- 
bourne  to  dismiss  these  fears  and  anxieties.  The  little  com- 
munity away  up  there  in  the  solitude  of  the  hills  was  sud- 
denly thrown  into  violent  commotion.  A  young  gillie 
who  had  been  wandering  about  had  come  running  back 
to  the  bothy,  declaring  that  he  had  seen  a  stag  go  into  the 
wood  just  above  the  lodge,  and  of  course  the  news  was  im- 
mediately carried  to  the  house,  and  instantly  the  two  gentle- 
men came  out — Mr.  Winterbourne  eager  and  excited,  the 
Master  of  Lynn  not  quite  so  sure  of  the  truth  of  the  report. 
Duncan,  to  tell  the  truth  was  also  inclined  to  doubt;  for  this 
young  lad  had  until  the  previous  year  been  a  deck  hand  on 
board  the  Dunara  Castle^  and  knew  a  great  deal  more 
about  skarts  and  sea-gulls  than  about  stags.  Moreover,  tiie 
shepherds  had  been  through  the  wood  this  same  morning 
with  their  dogs.  However,  it  was  determined,  after  much 
hurried  consultation,  not  to  miss  the  chance  if  there  was  a 
chance.  The  day  in  any  case,  threatened  to  turn  out  badly 
the  clouds  were  coming  closer  and  closer  down  ;  to  drive  this 
wood  would  be  a  short   and   prat-ticable  undertakinsj  that 


YOLANDE.  173 

would  carry  them  on  conveniently  to  lunch-time.  And  so 
it  was  finally  arranged  that  Mr.  Winterbourne  should  go 
away  by  himself  to  a  station  that  he  knew,  commanding 
certain  gullies  that  the  stag,  if  there  was  a  stag,  would 
most  likely  make  for ;  while  the  Master  would  stay  behind, 
and,  after  a  calculated  interval,  go  through  the  wood  with 
Duncan  and  the  beaters. 

In  the  midst  of  all  this  Miss  Tolande  suddenly  made  her 
appearance,  in  a  short-skirted  dress,  thick  boots,  and  deer- 
stalker's cap. 

"  What  do  you  want  ?  "  her  father  said,  abruptly,  and 
with  a  stare. 

"  I  am  going  with  yon,"  was  her  cool  answer. 

**  Indeed  you  are  not." 

*'  Why  not,  then  ?" 

"  Women  going  deer-stalking !"  he  exclaimed.  "  What 
next?" 

*'  Can  I  not  be  as  quiet  as  any  one  ?  Why  should  I  not 
go  with  you  ?  I  have  climbed  the  hill  many  times,  and  I 
know  very  well  where  to  hide,  for  Duncan  showed  me  the 
place." 

"  Go  spin,  you  jade,  go  spin  !"  her  father  said,  as  he 
shouldered  the  heavy  rifle,  and  set  off  on  the  long  and 
weary  struggle  up  the  hill. 

Yolande  turned  to  the  Master. 

"Is  he  not  unkind  I"  she  said,  in  a  crestfallen  way. 

"  If  I  were  you,"  said  he,  laughing,  *'  I  would  go  all  the 
same." 

"  Should  I  do  any  harm  ?  Is  it  possible  that  I  could  do 
any  harm  ?"  she  asked,  quickly. 

"  Not  a  bit  of  it.  What  harm  could  you  do  ?  There  is 
room  for  a  dozen  people  to  hide  in  that  place  ;  and  if  you 
keep  your  head  just  a  little  bit  above  the  edge,  and  keep 
perfectly  still,  you  will  see  the  whole  performance  in  the 
gully  below.  If  there  is  a  stag  in  the  wood,  and  if  I  don't 
get  a  shot  at  him,  he  is  almost  sure  to  go  up  through  the 
gullies.  You  won't  scream,  I  suppose  ?  And  don't  move  : 
if  you  move  a  finger  he  will  see  you.  And  don't  tumble 
into  too  many  moss-holes,  Yolande,  when  you  are  crossing 
the  moor.  And  don't  break  your  ankles  in  a  peat-hag.  And 
don't  topple  over  the  edge  when  you  get  to  the  gullies." 

"  Do  you  think  you  will  frighten  me?  No  ;  I  am  going 
as  soon  as  papa  is  out  of  sight." 

"  Oil,  you  can't  go   wrong,"  said  he,  good-naturedly. 


174  YOLANDE, 

"  The  only  thing  is,  when  you  get  to  the  top  of  the  hill,  you 
might  go  on  some  three  or  four  lumdred  yards  before  cross- 
ing the  moor,  so  as  to  keep  well  back  from  the  wood." 

*'  Oh  yes,  certainly,"  said  Yolande.  "  I  understand 
very  well." 

Accordingly,  some  little  time  thereafter,  she  set  out  on 
her  self-imposed  task  ;  and  she  was  fully  aware  that  it  was  a 
fairly  arduous  one.  Even  here  at  the  outset  it  was  pretty 
stiff  work ;  for  the  hill  rose  sheer  away  from  the  little  pla 
teau  on  which  the  lodge  stood,  and  the  ground  was  rugged 
in  some  parts  and  a  morass  in  others,  while  there  was  an 
abundance  of  treacherous  holes  where  the  heather  grew 
long  among  the  rocks.  But  she  had  certain  landmarks  to 
guide  her.  At  first  there  was  a  sheep  track ;  then  she 
made  for  two  juniper  bushes  ;  then  for  certain  conspicuous 
boulders ;  then,  higher  up,  she  came  on  a  rough  and  stony  face 
where  the  climbing  was  pretty  difficult ;  then  by  the  <i*X^;Q 
of  a  little  hollow  that  had  a  tree  or  two  in  it  and  then,  as  she 
was  now  nearly  at  the  top,  and  as  there  was  a  smooth 
boulder  convenient,  she  thought  she  would  sit  down  a 
minute  to  resjain  her  breath.  Far  below  her  the  lodoje  and 
its  dependencies  looked  like  so  many  small  toyhouses ;  she 
could  see  the  tiny  figures  of  human  beings  moving  about  ; 
in  the  perfect  silence  she  could  hear  the  whining  of  the 
dogs  shut  up  in  the  kennel.  Then  one  of  those  miniature 
figures  waved  something  white;  she  returned  the  signal. 
Then  she  rose  and  went  on  again  ;  she  crosseda  little  burn  ; 
she  passed  along  the  edge  of  some  steep  gullies  leading 
away  down  to  the  Corrie-an-Eich,  that  is,  the  Corrie  of  the 
Horses  and  finally,  after  some  further  climbing,  she  reached 
the  broad,  wide,  open,  undulating  moorland,  from  whchi 
nothing  wasvisible  but  a  wilderness  of  bare  and  bleak 
mountain-top,  all  as  silent  as  the  grave. 

She  had  been  up  here  twice  or  thrice  before  ;  but  she 
never  came  upon  this  scene  of  vast  and  voiceless  desolation 
without  being  struck  by  a  sort  of  terror.  It  seemed  away 
out  of  the  world.  And  on  this  morning  a  deeper  gloom 
than  usual  hung  over  it ;  the  clouds  were  low  and  heavy  ; 
there  was  a  brooding  stillness  in  the  air.  She  was  glad 
that  some  one  had  preceded  her :  the  solitude  of  this  place 
was  terrible. 

And  now  as  she  set  out  to  cross  the  wild  moorland  she 
discovered  that  that  was  a  much  more  serious  undertaking 
than  when  she  had  a  friendly    hand  to  lend    her   assistance 


YOLANDE.  175 

trom  time  to  time.  This  wide  plain  of  moss  and  bog  and 
heather  was  intersected  by  a  succession  of  peat-hags,  the  oozy- 
black  soil  of  which  was  much  more  easy  to  slide  down  into 
than  to  clamber  out  of.  The  Master  of  Lynn  had  taught 
her  how  to  cross  these  hags  ;  one  step  down,  then  a  spring 
across  tlien  her  right  hand  grasped  by  his  right 
hand,  then  her  elbow  caught  by  his  left  hand,  and  she 
stood  secure  on  the  top  of  the  other  bank.  But  now,  as  she 
scrambled  down  the  one  side,  so  she  had  to  scramble  up  the 
other,  generally  laying  hold  of  a  bunch  of  heather  to  help 
her  ;  and  as  she  was  anxious  not  to  lose  her  way,  she  made 
a  straight  course  across  this  desert  waste,  and  did  not  turn 
aside  for  drier  or  smoother  ground,  as  one  better  acquainted 
with  the  moor  might  have  done.  However,  she  struggled 
on  bravely.  The  Urst  chill  struck  by  that  picture  of  desola- 
tion had  gone.  She  was  thinking  more  of  the  deer  now. 
She  hoped  she  would  be  up  in  time.  She  hoped  her  father 
would  get  a  chance.  And  of  course  she  made  perfectly 
certain  that  if  he  did  get  a  chance  he  would  kill  the  stag  ; 
and  then  there  would  be  a  joyful  procession  back  to  the 
lodge,  and  a  rare  to-do  among  the  servants  and  the  gillies, 
with  perhaps  a  dance  in  the  evening  to  the  skirl  of  Dun- 
can's pipes. 

All  at  once  a  cold  wind  began  to  blow ;  and  about  a 
minute  thereafter  she  had  no  more  idea  of  where  she  was 
than  if  she  had  been  in  the  middle  of  the  Atlantic.  The 
whole  world  had  been  suddenly  shut  out  from  her ;  all  she 
could  see  was  a  yard  or  two,  either  way,  of  the  wet  mosa 
and  heather.  This  gray  cloud  that  had  come  along  was  raw 
to  the  throat  and  to  the  eyes  ;  but  it  did  not  deposit  much 
moisture  on  her  clothes  ;  its  chief  effect  was  the  bewilder- 
ment of  not  seeing  anything.  And  yet  she  thought  she 
ought  to  go  on.  Perhaps  she  might  get  out  of  it.  Perhaps 
the  wind  would  carry  it  off.  And  so  she  kept  on  as  straight 
as  she  could  guess,  but  with  much  more  caution,  for  at  any 
moment  she  might  fall  into  one  of  the  deep  holes  worn  by 
the  streams  in  the  peat,  or  into  one  of  the  moss-holes  where 
the  vegetation  was  so  treacherously  green. 

But  as  she  went  on  and  on,  and  could  find  nothing  that 
she  could  recognize,  she  grew  afraid.  Moreover,  there 
was  a  roaring  of  a  waterfall  somewhere,  which  seemed  to 
her  louder  than  anything  she  had  heard  about  there  before. 
She  began  to  wonder  how  far  she  had  come,  and  to  fear 
that  in  the  mist  she  had  lost  her  direction,  and  mioht  be  in 


176  YOLANDE, 

the  immpdiate  neighborhood  of  some  dangerous  precipice. 
And  then,  as  she  was  looking  all  round  her  helplessly,  her 
heart  stood  still  with  fright.  There,  away  in  that  vague 
pall  that  encompassed  her,  stood  the  shadow,  the  ghost,  of 
an  animal,  a  large,  visionary  thing,  motionless  and  noiseless, 
at  a  distance  that  she  could  not  compute.  And  now  she 
felt  sure  that  that  was  the  stag  they  were  in  search  of ;  and, 
strangely  enough,  her  agony  of  fear  was  not  that  she  might 
by  accident  be  shot  through  being  in  the  neighborhood  of 
the  deer,  but  that  she  might  by  some  movement  on  her  part 
scare  it  away.  She  stood  motionless,  her  heart  now  beat- 
ing with  excitement,  her  eyes  fixed  on  this  faint  shade 
away  in  there,  in  the  gray.  It  did  not  move.  She  kept 
her  hands  clinched  by  her  side,  so  that  she  should  not 
tremble.  She  dared  not  even  sink  into  the  heather  and  try 
to  hide  there.  But  the  next  moment  she  had  almost 
screamed  ;  for  there  was  a  hurried  rushing  noise  oeliind  her 
and  as  she  (in  spite  of  herself)  wheeled  round  to  face  this 
new  danger,  a  troop  of  phantoms  went  flying  by — awful 
things  they  appeared  to  be  until,  just  as  they  passed  her, 
she  recognized  them  to  be  humble  and  familiar  sheep.  More- 
over, when  she  saw  that  other  animal  out  there  disappear 
along  with  them — the  whole  of  them  looming  large  and 
mysterious  in  this  cloud-world — she  made  sure  that  that 
had  been  a  sheep  also,  and  she  breathed  more  freely.  Must 
not  these  animals  have  been  disturbed  by  her  father? 
Ought  she  not  to  make  back  in  the  direction  from  which 
they  had  come  ?  To  go  any  further  forward  she  scarcely 
dared  ;  the  roar  of  water  seemed  perilously  near. 

As  she  thus  stood,  bewildered,  uncertain,  and  full  of  a 
nameless  dread,  she  saw  before  her  a  strange  thing — a  thing 
that  added  amazement  to  her  terror — a  belt  of  white,  like 
a  waterfall,  that  seemed  to  connect  earth  and  sky.  It  was 
at  an  unknown  distance,  but  it  appeared  to  be  perfectly 
vertical,  and  she  knew  that  no  such  stupendous  waterfall 
had  she  either  seen  before  or  heard  of.  That,  then,  tliat 
white  water,  w^as  the  cause  of  the  roaring  noise.  And  tlien 
she  bethought  her  of  a  saying  of  Archie  Leslie  that  tales 
were  told  of  people  having  gone  into  this  wilderness  and 
never  having  been  heard  of  again ;  but  that  there  was  one 
sure  way  of  escape  for  any  one  who  got  astray — to  follow 
any  one  of  the  streams.  That,  he  had  said,  must  sooner  or 
later  lead  you  down  to  AUt-nam-Ba.  But  when  she  thought 
of  going  asvay  over  to   tliat  white   torrent,  ;iii(l   seeking  to 


YOLANDE.  17? 

follow  its  course  down  through  chasm  after  chasm,  she 
shuddered.  For  one  who  knew  the  country  intimately — for 
a  man  who  could  jump  from  boulder  to  boulder,  and  swing 
himself  from  bush  to  bush — it  might  be  possible ;  for  her 
it  was  impossible,  Nor  was  there  the  slightest  use  in  her 
trying  to  go  back  the  way  she  came.  She  had  lost  all  sense 
of  direction  ;  there  was  nothing  to  give  her  a  clue  ;  she  was 
absolutely  helpless. 

But  fortunately  she  had  the  good  sense  to  stand  still  and 
to  consider  her  position  with  such  calmness  as  she  could  mus- 
ter; and  that  took  time,  insensibly  to  herself,  the  clouds 
around  were  growing  thinner.  Then  she  noticed  that  the 
upper  part  of  that  awe-inspiring  torrent  had  receded  very 
considerably — that  the  white  line  was  no  longer  vertical,  but 
seemed  to  stretch  back  into  the  distance.  Then  the  moorland 
visible  around  her  began  to  grow  more  extended.  Here  and 
there  faint  visions  of  hills  appeared.  And  then  a  flood  of 
joyful  recognition  broke  over  her.  That  awful  torrent  was 
nothing  but  the  familiar  Allt-cam-Ban,*  its  brawling  white 
stream  not  vertical  at  all,  but  merely  winding  down  from 
the  far  heights  of  the  hills.  She  had  come  too  far  certainly  ; 
but  now  she  knew  that  the  gullies  she  was  in  search  of 
were  just  behind  her,  and  that  her  father's  hiding-place 
was  not  more  than  three  hundred  yards  distant.  The  cloud 
that  had  encompassed  her  was  now  trailing  along  the  face 
of  the  hill  opposite  her ;  the  gloomy  landscape  was  clear  in 
all  its  features.  With  a  light  heart  she  tripped  along,  over 
heather,  across  hag,^,  through  sopping  moss,  until  behind  a 
little  barricade  which  Nature  had  formed  at  the  summit  of 
a  precipice  overlooking  certain  ravines — a  little  box,  as  it 
were,  that  looked  as  if  it  had  been  dug  out  for  the  very  pur- 
pose of  deer-slaying — she  found  her  father  quietly  standing, 
and  cautiously  peering  over  the  ledge. 

When  he  heard  her  stealthy  approach  he  quickly  turned  ; 
then  he  motioned  her  to  stoop  down  and  come  to  him. 
This  she  did  very  cautiously  and  breathlessly,  and  presently 
blie  was  standing  beside  him,  on  a  spot  which  enabled  her 
to  look  down  into  the  gullies  beneath.  These  certainly 
formed  a  most  admirable  deer-trap,  if  ever  there  was  one. 
The  place  consisted  of  a  series  of  little  hills  or  lumps,  prob- 
ably not  more  than  150  feet  in  height,  with  sheer  smooth 
sloi)Os,  here  and  there  lightly  wooded,  but  mostly  covered 

*  The  White  Winding  Water. 


178  YOLA^DR. 

with  heather.  The  gullies  between  those  lumps,  ngnin, 
came  to  a  point  in  a  ravine  just  underneath  where  Yolande 
was  standing ;  so  that,  whichever  way  the  deer  came,  they 
were  almost  certain  to  make  up  the  steep  face  just  opposite 
this  station,  and  so  give  the  rifleman  an  excellent  chance. 
Yolande  took  out  her  housekeeper's  note-book,  and  wrote 
on  the  fly-leaf : 

"  Have  you  seen  anything  f  " 

He  shook  his  head,  and  motioned  to  her  to  put  the  book 
away.  It  was  not  a  time  for  trifling.  If  there  were  a  staq 
in  the  unseen  woods  beyond,  it  might  make  its  sudden  a)>- 
pearance  in  this  silent  little  ravine  at  any  moment,  and 
might  make  for  the  top  by  some  quite  unexpected  track. 
He^kept  his  eyes  on  the  watch  all  along  the  gullief^;  but  hi:^ 
head  was  motionless.  Yolande  too  was  eager  and  anxious 
— but  only  for  a  while.  As  time  passed  she  grew  listless. 
This  solitude  seemed  always  to  have  been  a  solitude.  There 
was  no  sign  of  life  in  it.  Doubtless  the  young  lad  had  been 
deceived.  And  then  she  grew  to  thinking  of  the  strange 
sight  she  saw  in  the  mist,  when  the  waters  of  the  AUt-cam- 
Ban  seemed  to  be  one  foaming  white  vertical  torrent. 

Then  a  shock  came  to  her  eyes — a  living  thing  suddenly 
appeared  in  that  empty  solitude  ;  and  at  once  she  clinched 
her  hands.  She  knew  what  was  expected  of  her.  She  re- 
mained rigid  as  a  stone ;  she  would  not  even  raise  her  head 
to  see  if  her  father  saw.  She  kept  her  eyes  on  this  startling 
feature  in  the  landscape  ;  she  held  her  breath  ;  she  was 
mainly  conscious  of  a  dim  fear  that  this  animal  that  was 
coming  over  that  hillock  at  such  a  speed  was  not  a  deer  at 
all,  but  a  fox.  It  was  of  a  light  reddish-brown  color.  Tlion 
it  had  not  come  up  any  of  the  gullies,  as  she  had  been  told 
to  expect ;  it  had  come  right  over  the  top  of  the  little  hill, 
with  a  long,  sinuous  stride;  and  now  it  was  descending 
again  into  the  ravine.  But  here  she  saw  it  was  a  deer. 
Once  out  of  the  long  heather,  and  coming  nearer  too,  it  Avas 
clear  that  this  was  a  deer.  But  surely  small  ?  Where  were 
the  great  horns?  Or  was  it  a  hind  ?  She  knew  rather  thnn 
saw  that  her  father  twice  aimed  his  rifle  at  this  animal, 
whatever  it  was,  as  it  sped  across  an  open  space  at  the 
bottom  of  the  ravine.  Of  course  all  this  happened  in  a  few 
seconds,  and  she  had  just  begun  to  think  that  the  animal 
had  horns,  and  was  a  roebuck,  when  the  lithe,  red,  sinuous, 
silent  object  disappeared- altogether  behind  a  ridge.      Still 


YOLAKDE.  179 

she  did  not  move.  She  did  not  express  disappointment. 
She  would  not  turn  her  head. 

Then  she  knew  that  her  father  had  quickly  passed  her 
and  jumped  on  a  clump  of  heather  whence  he  could  get  a 
better  view.  She  followed.  The  next  thing  she  saw,  clear 
against  the  sky,  and  not  more  than  a  hundred  and  twenty 
yards  off,  was  the  head  of  a  deer,  the  horns  thrown  back, 
the  nostrils  high  in  the  air.  The  same  instant  her  father  fired ; 
and  that  strange  object  (which  very  much  frightened  her) 
disappeared.  She  saw  her  father  j)ause  for  a  second  to  put 
a  fresh  cartridge  in  his  rifle  and  tiien  away  he  hurried  to 
the  place  where  the  deer  had  passed  ;  and  so  she  thought 
she  might  safely  follow.  She  found  her  father  searching  all 
about,  but  more  particularly  studying  the  peat-hags. 

"  I  do  believe  I  hit  him,"  he  said  (and  there  was  consid- 
erable vexation  in  his  tone).  "Look  about,  Yolande.  He 
must  have  crossed  the  peat  somewhere.  If  he  is  wounded, 
he  may  not  have  gone  far.  It  was  only  a  roebuck — still — 
such  a  chance!  Confound  it,  I  believe  I've  missed  him 
clean  I  " 

He  was  evidently  grievously  mortified,  and  she  was  sorry, 
for  she  knew  he  would  worry  about  it  afterward  ;  smaller 
trifles  than  that  made  him  fidget.  But  all  their  searching 
was  in  vain.  The  peat-hags  here  were  narrow  :  a  frightened 
deer  would  clear  them. 

"  If  he  is  wounded,  papa,  Duncan  and  the  dogs  will  go 
after  him." 

"  Oh  no,"  said  he,  moodily;  "I  believe  I  missed  him 
clean.  If  he  had  been  hit  he  couldn't  have  got  away  so 
fast.     Of  course  it  was  only  a  buck — still — " 

"  But,  papa,  it  was  a  most  difficult  shot.  I  never  saw 
any  creature  go  at  such  a  pace  ;  and  you  only  saw  him  for 
a  moment." 

"Yes,  and  for  that  moment  he  looked  as  big  as  a  cow 
against  the  sky.  Nobody  but  an  idiot  could  have  missed 
llie  thing." 

"  Oh,  you  need  not  try  to  make  me  believe  you  are  a 
bnd  shot,"  said  she  proudly.  "No.  Every  one  knows 
better  than  that.  I  know  what  Mr.  Leslie  tells  me.  And 
I  supj)Ose  the  very  best  shot  in  the  world  misses  some- 
times." 

"  Well,  there  is  no  use  waiting  here,"  said  he.  "  Of 
course  there  was  no  stag.  The  stag  that  idiot  of  a  boy  saw 
was  this  roebuck.     If  there   were   a  stag,  the   noise   of  the 


180  YOLANDE. 

shot  must  luive  driven  him  off.  Why  the  mischief  I  did 
not  fire  when  he  was  crossing  the  gully  I  don't  understand ! 
I  had  my  rifle  up  twice — " 

"  Papa,"  said  she,  suddenly,  "  what  is  that  ?  " 

She  was  looking  away  down  into  the  ravine  beneath 
them — at  a  dusky  red  object  that  was  lying  in  a  patch  of 
green  bracken.     He  followed  the  direction  of  her  eyes. 

"  Why,  surely — yes,  it  is,  Yolande — that  is  the  buck , 
he  must  have  fallen  backward  and  rolled  right  down  to  the 
bottom — " 

"  And  you  said  you  were  such  a  bad  shot,  papa !  " 

"  Oh,  that  is  no  such  prize,"  he  said  (but  he  spoke  a 
good  deal  more  cheerfully) ;  "what  I  wonder  is  whether 
the  poor  beast  is  dead  ;  I  suppose  he  must  be." 

"  There  they  come — there  they  come — look !  "  she  said ; 
and  she  was  far  more  excited  and  delighted  than  he  was. 
"  There  is  the  red  gillie  at  the  top,  and  Duncan  coming 
along  by  the  hollow — and  there  is  Archie — " 

She  took  out  her  hankerchief  and  waved  it  in  the  air. 

"  Don't,  Yolande,"  said  he.  *'  They'll  think  we've  got 
a  stag." 

«  We've  got  all  the  stag  there  was  to  get,"  said  she, 
proudly.  "  And  you  said  you  were  not  a  good  shot — to 
shoot  a  roebuck  running  at  such  a  pace !  " 

"  You  are  the  most  thorough  going  flatterer,  Yolande," 
he  said,  laughing  (but  he  was  very  much  pleased  all  the 
same).  *'  Why,  he  wasn't  going  at  all  just  at  the  crest — 
he  stopped  to  sniff  the  air — " 

"  But  you  could  only  have  seen  him   for  the  fiftieth  part 
of  a  second  :  isn't  that  the  same  as  running?" 

At  this  moment  a  voice  was  heard  from  below,  where  a 
little  group  of  figures  had  collected  round  the  buck.  It 
was  the  Master  of  Lynn  who  was  looking  up  to  them. 

"  A  very  fine  head  sir,"  he  called. 

"  There,  didn't  I  tell  you?  "she  said  proudly,  thouirii 
she  had  never  told  him  anything  of  the  kind.  And  then  in 
the  excitement  of  the  moment  she  forgot  that  she  had  nevor 
revealed  to  her  father  that  little  arrangement  about  tlie 
whiskey  that  the  Master  had  suggested  to  her. 

"  Duncan,"  she  called  down  to  them. 

"  Yes,  miss.'' 

"  When  you  go  back  home,  you  will  let  the  beaters 
have  a  glass  of  whiskey  each." 

"Very  well,  miss,"  he  called  back;  and   then   ho  qro- 


YOLANDE.  181 

ceeded  with  the  slinging  of  the  buck  round  the  shoulders 
of  the  red-headed  gillie. 

"  Archie,"  she  called  again. 

«  Yes.'' 

"  If  you  are  back  at  the  lodge  first,  wait  for  us.  We 
shall  be  there  in  time  for  lunch." 

"All  right." 

She  was  very  proud  and  pleased  as  they  trudged  awayj 
home  again  over  the  wild  moorland.  For  her  part  she 
could  see  no  difference  between  a  roe-deer  and  a  red-deer, 
except  that  the  former  (as  she  declared)  was  a  great  deal 
pleasanter  to  eat,  as  she  hoped  she  would  be  able  to  show 
them.  And  was  it  not  a  far  more  difficult  thing  to  hit  a 
deer  of  the  size  of  a  roebuck  than  to  hit  a  stag  as  tall  as  a 
horse  ? 

"  Flatterer,  flatterer,"  he  said,  but  he  was  mightily  well 
pleased  all  the  same  ;  and  indeed  to  see  Yolande  gay  and 
cheerful  like  this  was  of  itself  quite  enough  for  him  ;  so  that 
for  the  time  he  forj^ot  all  his  anxieties  and  fears. 


CHAPTER   XXIII. 

A   CONTIDANT. 


One  evening  John  Shortlands  and  Jack  Melville  were 
together  standing  at  the  door  of  the  lodge,  looking  down  the 
glen  at  the  very  singular  spectacle  there  presented.  The 
day  had  been  dull  and  overclouded,  and  seemed  about  to  sink 
into  an  equally  gloomy  evening,  when  suddenly,  at  sunset, 
the  western  heavens  broke  into  a  flame  of  red  ;  and  all  at 
once  the  stream  flowing  down  through  the  valley  became 
one  sheet  of  vivid  pink  fire,  only  bi'oken  here  and  there  by 
the  big  blocks  of  granite  in  its  channel,  which  remained 
of  a  pale  and  ghostly  gray. 

The  big,  burly  M.  P.,  however,  did  not  seem  wholly  oc- 
cupied with  this  transfiguration  of  the  heavens.  He  looked 
vexed,  perturbed,  impatient. 

"  Mr.  Melville,"  he  said,  abruptly,  in  his  broad  Korth- 
umbrian  intonation,  *'  will  you  walk  down  the  glen  for  a 
bit  ?  '' 


182  YOLAXDE. 

"  Yes ;  b  it  we  should  fetch  Miss  Winterboarne  to  show 
her  the  skies  on  fire." 

"  No  ;  it's  about  her  I  want  to  speak  to  you.  Come 
along." 

"  About  her  ? "  he  repeated,  with  the  large  clear  gray 
eyes  showing  some  astonishment. 

**  Or  rather,"  said  his  companion,  when  they  had  got  as 
far  as  the  bridge,  "  about  her  father.  Winterbourne  is  an 
old  friend  of  mine,  and  I  won't  just  call  him  an  ass  ;  but 
the  way  he  is  going  on  at  present,  shilly-shallying,  frightened 
to  say  this,  frightened  to  say  that,  is  enough  to  worry  a  far 
stronger  man  than  he  is  into  his  grave.  Well,  if  he  won't 
speak,  I  will.  Dang  -it,  I  hate  mystery  !  My  motto  is — 
Out  with  it !  And  he  would  never  have  got  into  this  pre- 
cious mess  if  he  had  taken  my  advice  all  through." 

Melville  was  surprised,  but  he  did  not  interrupt.  John 
Shorthands  seemed  a  trifle  angry. 

"  The  immediate  trouble  with  him  is  this  :  Ought  he  or 
ought  he  not  to  confide  certain  matters  to  you  as  a  friend 
of  young  Leslie  ?  Well,  I  am  going  to  take  that  into  my 
own  hand.  I  am  going  to  tell  you  the  whole  story — and  a 
miserable  business  it  is." 

"  Do  you  think  that  is  wise  ?  "  the  younger  man  said  calm- 
ly. "  If  there  is  anything  disagreeable,  shouldn't  the  knowl- 
edge of  it  be  kept  to  as  few  people  as  possible?  I  would 
rather  have  my  illusions  left.  The  Winterbournes  have 
been  kind  to  me  since  they  came  here,  and  it  has  been  de- 
lightful to  me  to  look  at  these  two — the  spectacle  of  father 
and  daughter." 

"  Oh,  but  I  have  nothing  to  say  against  either  of  them 
— God  forbid  ! — except  that  Winterbourne  has  been  a  con- 
founded ass,  as  it  seems  to  me ;  or  perhaps  I  should  say  as 
i*  used  to  seem  to  me.  Well,  now,  I  suppose  you  know 
that  your  friend  Leslie  and  Yolande  are  engaged?  " 

"  I  have  understood  as  much." 

"  But  did  he  not  tell  ye  ?  "  said  Shortlands,  with  a  stare. 

"  Well,  yes,"  the  other  said,  in  rather  a  cold  way. 
*'But  we  did  not  have  much  talk  about  it.  Archie  Leslie 
is  a  very  fine  fellow ;  but  he  and  I  don't  always  agree  in 
our  ways  of  looking  at  things." 

"  Then,  at  all  events,  in  order  to  disagree,  you  must 
know  what  his  way  of  looking  at  things  is  ;  and  that  is  just 
the  point  I'm  coming  to,"  said  Shortlands,  in  his  blunt, 
dogmatic  kind  of  way.     "  Just  this,  that  Yolande  Winter 


YOLAMDE.  183 

bourne  has  been  brouglit  up  all  her  life  to  believe  that  her 
mother  died  when  she  was  a  child ;  whereas  the  mother  is 
not  dead,  but  very  much  alive — worse  luck  ;  and  the  point 
is  whether  he  ought  to  be  told ;  and  whether  he  is  a  sensible 
sort  of  chap,  who  would  make  no  fuss  about  it,  and  who 
would  see  that  it  could  not  matter  much  to  him  ;  and,  above 
all,  wliether  he  would  consent  to  keep  this  knowledge  back 
from  Yolande,  who  would  only  be  shocked  and  horrified 
by  it.  Do  ye  understand  ?  I  think  1  have  put  it  plain — 
that  is,  from  Winterbourne's  point  of  view." 

"  But,  surely,"  exclaimed  Melville,  with  wide-open  eyes 
— "  surely  the  best  thing,  surely  the  natural  thing,  would  be 
to  tell  tlie  girl  herself,  first  of  all !  " 

*'  Man  alive !  Winterbourne  would  rather  cut  his  throat. 
Don't  you  see  that  his  affection  for  the  girl  is  quite  extraor- 
dinary ?  It  is  the  sole  passion  of  his  life  :  a  needle  scratch 
on  Yolande's  finger  is  like  a  knife  to  his  heart.  I  assure 
you  the  misery  he  has  endured  in  keeping  this  secret  is 
beyond  anything  I  can  tell  you ;  and  I  do  believe  he  would 
go  through  the  whole  thing  again  just  that  Yolande's  mind 
should  be  free,  happy,  and  careless.  Mind  you,  it  was  not 
done  through  any  advice  of  mine.  No  ;  nor  was  it  Winter- 
bourne  either  who  began  it ;  it  was  his  sister.  Tlie  child 
was  given  to  her  charge  when  she  w^as  about  two  or  three 
years  old,  I  fancy.  Then  they  were  living  in  Lincolnshire  ; 
afterward  they  went  to  France,  and  the  aunt  died  there.  It 
was  she  who  brought  Yolande  up  to  believe  her  mother 
dead  ;  and  then  Winterbourne  put  off  and  put  off  telling  her 
— although  twenty  times  I  remonstrated  with  him — until  he 
found  it  quite  impossible.  He  couldn't  do  it.  Sometimes 
when  I  look  at  her  now  I  scarcely  wonder.  She  seems  such 
a  radiant  kind  of  a  creature  that  I  doubt  whether  I  could 
bring  myself  to  tell  her  that  story — no,  I  could  not — dang 
it !  I  could  not.  And  even  when  I  was  having  rows  with 
Winterbourne,  and  telling  him  what  an  ass  he  was,  and  tell- 
ing him  that  the  torture  he  was  going  through  was  quite 
unnecessary,  why,  man,  I  thought  there  was  something 
fine  in  it  too ;  and  again  and  again  I  have  watched  him 
when  he  would  sit  and  look  at  Yolande  and  listen  to  all  her 
nonsense,  and  have  seen  his  face  just  filled  with  pleasure 
to  see  her  so  happy  aijd  careless,  and  then  I  thought  he  had 
bis  moments  of  recompense  also.  When  he  goes  about 
with  her  he  forgets  all  that  worry — thank  goodno>;s  for  that ! 
antl    ci-Tlainly    she    is    higli-spirited    enough  for    anytliing. 


184  YOLANDE. 

You  would  think  she  had  never  known  a  care  or 
in  all  her  existence  ;  and  I  suppose  that's  about  the  truth." 
John  Shortlands  had  grown  quite  eloquent  about  Yo- 
lande — although,  indeed,  he  was  not  much  of  an  orator  in 
the  House ;  and  his  companion  listened  in  silence — in  a 
profound  reverie,  in  fact.     At  last  he  said  slowly, — 

"  I  suppose  there  is  no  necessity  that  I  should  know 
why  the  girl  has  been  kept  in  ignorance  of  her  mother's 
existence?" 

"  Oh,  I  will  tell  you  the  story — miserable  as  it  is.    Well, 

it  is  a  sad  story,  too ;  for  you  can  not  imagine  a  pleasanter 

creature  than  that  was   when   Winterbourne   married   her. 

He  was  older  than  she  was,  but  not  much  :  he  looks  a  good 

deal  older  now  than  he  really  is:  those  years  have  told  on 

him.     It  was  neuralgia  that  began  it ;  she  suffered  horribly. 

Then  some  idiot  advised  her  to  drink  port-wine — I  suppose 

the  very  worst   thing   she  could  have   tried,  for  if  it  is  bad 

for  gout,  it  must  be  bad  for  rheumatism   and  neuralgia  and 

such   things;  at   least   I   should   think  so.      However,   it 

soothed  her  at  first,  I  suppose,  and  no  doubt  she  took  refuge 

in  it  whenever  a  bad   attack   caii^e   on.     But,  mind  you,  it 

was  not  that  that  played   the  mischief  with  her.     She  did 

take  too  much — I  suppose  she  had  to  go  on  increasing  the 

doses — but  she  had  not  destroyed  her  self-control ;  for  quite 

suddenly   she   went   to   her  husband,   who   had  suspected 

nothing  of  the  kind,  told  him  frankly  that  the  habit  was 

growing  on  her,   and   declared  her  resolution  to  break  the 

thing  off  at  once.     She  did  that.     I  firmly  believe  she  did 

keep  her  resolution  to  the  letter.     But  then  the  poor  wretch 

had  worse  and  worse  agony  to  bear,    and  then  it  was  that 

somebody  or  other — it  wasn't  Winterbourne,  and  he  knew 

nothing  about  it — recommended  her  to  try  small  doses  of 

opium — as  a  sort  of  medicine,  don't  ye  see.     I  think  it  was 

opium,  for  I   am  not   sure   whether   chlorodyne  was  in  use 

just  then ;  but  all  events  it  was  chlorodyne  soon  afterward  : 

and  it  seems  miraculous  how  women  can  go  on  destroying 

themselves  with  those  infernal   drugs   without  being  found 

out.     I  don't  know  whether  Winterbourne  would  ever  have 

found  it  out;  for  he  is  an  indulgent  sort  of  chap,  and  he 

was  very  fond  of  her ;  but  one  night  there  was  a  scene  at 

dinner.     Then  he  discovered  the  whole  thing.     The  child 

was  sent  away  for  fear  of  further  scenes,  and  this  so  terrified 

the  mother  that  she  made  the  most  solemn  promises  never 

to  touch  the  poison  again.     But  by  this  time — here  is  the 


YOLAND^^  ^-.  V^ 

^^:' ■'^*  /, 

mischief  of  those  infernal  things — her'j>bwer  of  self-con troK 
nad  been  affected.  Man  alive  !  I  can't  tell  yieu«r4ij§^t3SZ'«iter- 
bourne  had  to  go  through.  His  patience  with  her  was 
superhuman  ;  and  always  the  promise  held  out  to  her  was 
that  Yolande  was  to  be  restored  to  her,  and  sometimes  she 
Bucceeded  so  well  that  every  one  was  hopeful,  and  she  seemed 
to  have  quite  recovered.  Then  again  there  would  be 
another  relapse,  and  a  wild  struggle  to  conceal  it  from  the 
friends  of  the  family,  and  all  the  rest  of  it.  What  a  life 
lie  has  led  all  those  years,  trying  to  get  her  to  live  in  some 
safe  retreat  or  other,  and  then  suddenly  finding  that  she 
had  broken  out  again,  and  gone  to  some  people — Romneys 
or  Romfords  the  name  is — who  have  a  most  pernicious  influ- 
ence over  her,  and  can  do  anything  with  her  when  she  is 
in  that  semi-maudlin  state!  Of  course  they  use  her  to 
extort  money  from  Winterbourne ;  and  she  has  drugged 
half  her  wits  away ;  and  it  is  easy  for  them  to  persuade  her 
that  she  has  been  ill-treated  about  Yolande.  Then  she  will 
go  down  to  the  House,  or  hunt  him  out  at  his  lodgings. 
Oh,  I  assure  you,  I  can't  tell  you  what  has  been  going  on 
all  these  years.  There  is  only  one  fortunate  thing — that 
the  Romfords  are  not  aware  of  the  terror  in  which  he  lives  of 
Yolande  getting  to  know  the  truth,  or  else  they  would  put 
the  screw  on  a  good  deal  more  forcibly,  I  reckon.  As  for 
her,  poor  woman,  she  has  no  idea  of  asking  for  money  for 
herself ;  in  fact,  she  has  plenty.  It  is  not  a  question  of 
money  with  Winterbourne.  His  dread  is  that  she  might 
stumble  on  them  accidentally,  and  Yolande  have  to  be 
told.  That  is  why  he  has  consented  to  her  remaining  all 
these  years  in  France,  though  his  only  delight  is  in  her 
society.  That  is  why  he  won't  let  her  live  in  London,  but 
would  rather  put  himself  to  any  inconvenience  by  her 
living  elsewhere.  That  is  why  he  looks  forward  with  very 
fair  composure  to  a  separation :  Yolande  living  in  peace 
and  quiet  in  this  neighborhood  here,  and  he  left  in  London 
to  take  his  chance  of  a  stone  being  thrown  through  his 
window  at  any  hour  of  the  day  or  night." 

"  But  that  terrorism  is  perfectly  frightful !  " 
"  How  are  you  to  avoid  it  ? "  said  Shortlands,  coolly. 
"  There  is  the  one  way,  of  course — there  is  the  heroic  remedy. 
Tell  Yolande  the  whole  story ;  and  then,  the  next  time  the 
stone  is  thrown,  summon  the  police,  give  the  woman  in 
charge,  bind  her  over  in  recognizances,  and  have  all  your 


186  YOLANDE. 

names  in  the  next  day's  paper.  Some  men  could  do  that. 
Winterbourne  couldn't ;  he  hasn't  the  nerve.' 

The  answer  to  that  was  a  strange  one.  It  was  a  re- 
mark, or  rather  an  exclamation,  that  Melville  seemed  to 
make  almosi  to  himself. 

"  My  God !  not  one  of  them  appears  to  see  what  ought 
to  be  done !  " 

Bui  the  remark  was  overheard. 

"  What  would  you  do,  then  ?  " 

"  I  ?  "  said  Melville — and  John  Shortlands  did  not  ob- 
serve that  the  refined,  intellectual  face  of  his  companion 
grew  a  shade  paler  as  he  spoke — "  I?  I  would  go  straight 
to  the  girl  herself,  and  I  would  say,  *  That  is  the  condition 
ill  which  your  mother  is :  it  is  your  duty  to  go  and  save 
her.'  '' 

"  Then  let  me  tell  you  this,  Mr.  Melville,"  said  Short- 
lands,  quite  as  warmly,  "  rather  than  bring  such  shame  and 
horror  and  suffering  on  his  daughter,  George  Winterbourne 
would  cut  off  his  fingers  one  by  one.  Why,  man,  you 
don't  understand  what  that  girl  is  to  him — his  very  life ! 
Besides,  everything  has  been  tried.  You  don't  suppose  the 
mother  would  have  been  allowed  to  sink  to  that  state  with- 
out every  human  effort  being  made  to  save  her  ;  and  al- 
ways Yolande  herself  held  out  to  her  as  the  future  reward. 
Now  we  must  be  getting  back,  I  think.  But  I  wish  you 
would  think  over  what  I  have  told  you,  and  let 
Winterbourne  have  your  opinion  as  to  whether  all  this 
should  be  declared  to  your  friend  Leslie.  Winterbourne's 
first  idea  was  that  if  Yolande  were  married  and  settled  in 
the  country — especially  in  such  a  remote  neighborhood  as 
this — there  would  be  no  heed  to  tell  even  her  husband  about 
it.  It  could  not  concern  them.  But  now  he  is  worrying 
himself  to  death  about  other  possibilities.  Supposing 
something  disagreeable  were  to  happen  in  London,  and  the 
family  name  get  into  the  paper,  then  Yolande's  husband 
might  turn  round  and  ask  why  it  had  been  concealed  from 
him.  That  might  be  unpleasant,  you  know.  If  he  were 
not  considerate,  he  might  put  the  blame  on  her.  The  fact 
is,  Winterbourne  has  had  his  nervous  system  so  pulled  to 
pieces  by  all  this  fear  and  secrecy  and  anxiety  that  he  ex- 
aggerates things  tremendously,  and  keeps  speculating  on 
dangers  never  likely  to  occur.  Why,  he  can't  shoot  half 
as  well  as  he  used  to  ;  he  is  always  imagining  something  is 
going  to  happen,  and  he  does    not   take    half   his  chances, 


YOLANDE.  187 

just  for  fear  of  missing,  and  being  mortified  after.     He  has 
not  had  a  pleasant  time  of  it  these  many  years." 

They  turned  now,  and  leisurely  made  their  way  back  to 
the  lodge.  The  red  sunset  still  flared  up  the  glen ;  but  now 
it  was  behind  them,  and  it  was  a  soft  warm  color  that  they 
saw  spreading  over  the  heather  slopes  of  the  hills,  and  the 
wooded  corries,  and  the  little  plateau  between  the  couver 
gent  steams. 

*' May  I  ask  your  own  opinion,  Mr.  Shortlands."  said 
Melville,  after  a  time,  "  as  to  whether  this  thing  should  be 
kept  back  from  Leslie  ? '' 

"  Well,  I  should  say  that  would  depend  pretty  much  on 
his  character,"  was  the  answer,  '*  and  as  to  that  I  know 
very  little.  My  own  inclination  would  be  for  having  a  frank 
disclosure  all  round  ;  but  still  I  see  what  Winterbourne  has 
to  say  for  himself,  and  I  can  not  imagine  how  the  existence 
of  this  poor  woman  could  concern  either  your  friend  Leslie 
or  his  wife.  Probably  they  would  never  hear  a  word  of  her. 
She  can't  live  long.  She  must  have  destroyed  her  constitu- 
tion completely.  Poor  wretch !  one  can't  help  pitying  her  ; 
and  at  the  same  time,  you  know,  it  would  be  a  great  relief  if 
she  were  dead,  both  to  herself  and  her  relatives.  Of  course, 
if  Mr.  Leslie  were  a  finical  sort  of  person — I  am  talking  in 
absolute  confidence,  you  know,  and  in  ignorance  as  well — 
he  might  make  some  objection  ;  but  if  he  were  a  man  with 
a  good  sound  base  of  character,  he  would  say,  '  Well,  what 
does  that  matter  to  me  ?  "  and  he  would  have  some  con- 
sideration for  what  Mr.  Winterbourne  has  gone  through  in 
order  to  keep  this  trouble  concealed  from  the  girl,  and  would 
himself  be  as  willing  to  conceal  it  from  her." 

"  Don't  you  think,"  said  Melville,  after  a  minute's  pause, 
**  that  the  mere  fact  that  he  might  make  some  objection  is  a 
reason  why  he  should  be  informed  at  once  ?  " 

"  Is  he  an  ass  ?  "  said  John  Shortlands,  bluntly.  "  Is 
he  a  worrying  sort  of  creature  ?  " 

*'  Oh,  not  at  all.  He  is  remarkably  sensible — very  sensible. 
He  will  take  a  perfectly  calm  view  of  the  situation  :  you  may 
depend  on  that." 

"  Other  things  being  equal,  I  am  for  his  being  told — 
most  distinctly.  If  he  has  common-sense,  there  need  be 
no  trouble.  On  the  other  hand,  you  know,  if  you  should 
think  we  are  making  a  fuss  where  none  is  necessary,  I  have 
a  notion  that  Winterbourne  would  be  satisfied  by  your 
judgment,  ;is  an  iuUmate  fi'iend  of   Leslie's." 


188  YOLANDE. 

"  But  that  is  putting  rather  a  serious  responsibility  on 
me.  Supposing  it  is  decided  to  say  nothing  about  the  matter, 
then  I  should  be  in  the  awkward  position  of  knowing  some- 
thing affectinor  Leslie's  domestic  affairs  of  which  he  would 
be  ignorant." 

"Undoubtedly.  I  quite  see  that.  But  if  you  are  afraid 
of  accepting  the  responsiblity,  there's  an  easy  way  out  of  it. 
I  will  go  and  tell  it  myself,  and  have  it  over.  I  have  already 
bi'oken  away  from  Winterbourne's  shilly-shallying  by  speak- 
ing to  you ;  he  would  never  have  done  it,  and  he  is  worrying 
himself  into  his  grave.  He  is  a  timid  and  sensitive  fellow. 
He  now  thinks  he  should  have  told  the  Master,  as  he  calls 
him,  when  he  first  proposed  for  Yolande,  and  perhaps  it 
might  have  been  better  to  do  so  ;  but  I  can  see  how  he  was 
probably  well  inclined  to  the  match  for  various  reasons,  and 
anxious  not  to  put  any  imaginary  stumbling-block  in  the, 
way.  But  now  if  you  were  to  go  to  him  and  say,  '  Well,I 
have  heard  the  whole  story.  It  can't  concern  either  Yolande 
or  her  future  husband.  Forget  the  whole  thing,  and  don't 
worry  any  more  about  it,  1  do  believe  he  would  recover 
his  peace  of  mind,  for  he  hi^,s  confidence  in  your  judg- 
ment." 

"  It  would  be  rather  a  serious  thing." 

"  I  know  it." 
*    "  I  must  take  time  to  turn  the  matter  over." 

"  Oh,  certainly." 

They  had  now  reached  the  bridge,  and  happening  to  look 
up  they  saw  that  Yolande  had  come  to  the  door  of  the  lodge, 
and  was  standing  there,  and  waving  a  handkerchief  to  them 
as  a  sign  to  make  haste.  And  what  a  pretty  picture  she  made 
as  she  stood  there  ! — the  warm  light  from  the  west  aglow 
upon  the  tall  English-looking  figure  clad  in  a  light-hued 
costume,  and  giving  color  to  the  fair,  freckled  face,  and  the 
ruddy  gold  aureole  of  her  hair.  Melville's  eyes  lighted  up 
with  pleasure  at  the  very  sight  of  her ;  it  was  but  natural — 
biie  was  like  a  vision. 

"  Ah,"  said  she,  shaking  her  finger  at  them  as  they  went 
up  the  path,  "  you  are  wicked  men.  Seven  minutes  late 
already  ;  and  if  the  two-pounder  that  Mr.  Melville  brought 
for  me  has  fallen  all  to  pieces  you  must  have  yourselves  to 
blame — that  is  true." 

"  I  wish,  Miss  Winterbourne,"  said  Jack  Melville,  "  that 
some  noble  creature  would  give  me  a  day's  salmon-fishing. 
Then  I  could  bring  you  something  better  than  loch  trout^' 


YOLANDE.  189 

"  Oh  no,"  she  answered  imperiously,"  I  will  not  have 
anything  said  against  the  loch  trout.  No,  I  am  sure  there 
is  nothing  ever  so  good  as  what  you  get  from  your  own 
place — nothing.  Pa})a  says  that  never,  never  did  he  have 
such  cutlets  as  those  from  the  roe-deer  that  he  shot  las*^ 
week." 

"  I  can  tell  you,  Miss  Yolande,"  said  John  Shortland.s, 
"that  others  besides  your  father  fully  appreciated  tho^e 
cutlets.  The  whole  thing  depends  on  whether  you  have 
got  a  smart  young  housekeeper  ;  and  I  have  it  in  my  head 
now  that  I  am  going  to  spend  the  rest  of  my  days  at  Allt- 
nam-Ba;  and  I  will  engage  you,  on  your  own  terms — name 
them;  you  shall  have  the  money  down;  and  then  I  will 
have  Duncan  compose  a  march  for  me ;  why  should  it  be 
always  *  Melville's  Welcome  Home'?" 

"  But  you  are  also  to  have  the  '  Barren  Rocks  of  Aden' 
to-night,"  said  she,  brightly.  "  I  told  Duncan  it  was  your 
favoiite.  Now  come  along — come  along — oh,  dear  me!  it 
is  ten  minutes  late  !  " 

Jack  Melville  was  rather  silent  that  night  at  dinner. 
And  always — when  he  could  make  perfetly  certain  that  her 
eyes  were  cast  down,  or  turned  in  the  direction  of  John 
Shortlands  or  of  her  father — he  was  studying  Yolande's 
face ;  and  sometimes  he  would  recall  the  phrase  that  Mrs. 
Bell  had  used  on  the  first  occasion  she  had  seen  this  young 
lady,  or  rather,  immediately  after  parting  with  her,  '•  Slie's 
a  braw  lass,  that;  I  fear  she  will  make  some  man's  heart 
sore;"  and  then  again  he  kept  wondering  and  speculating 
as  to  what  possible  strength  of  will  and  womanly  character 
there  might  lie  behind  those  fair,  soft,  girlish  features. 


CHAPTER  XXIV. 

A    PEACEMAKER. 


Pretty  Mrs.  Graham  was  standing  in  her  room  at  In- 
verstroy,  ready  to  go  out ;  her  husband  was  in  the  adjacent 
dressing-room,  engaged  in  the  operation  of  shaving. 

"  You  need  not  be  afraid,  Jim,"  said  the  young  matrou  ; 
'*  everything  has  been  arranged.      Everything  will  go  quite 


190  YOLANDE, 

right  till  I  come  back.  And  Archie  is  to  meet  me  at  Fort 
Augustus,  so  that  the  ponies  won't  have  the  long  pull  up 
Glendoe." 

"  Why  can't  he  manage  his  own  affairs  ?  "  the  stout 
warrior  grumbled. 

"Aunt  Colquhoun  isn't  easy  to  get  on  with,"  she  said. 
"  And  I  am  beginning  to  feel  anxious.     What  would  you 
say  to  his  getting  spiteful,  and  running  away  with  Shena 
Van  f  " 

"  Stuff !  " 

"  Oh,  I  don't  know.  If  I  chose  I  could  show  you  some- 
thing I  cut  out  of  the  Iniyerness  Courier  about  three  years 
ago.     Well,  I  will  show  it  to  you." 

She  went  to  a  drawer  in  her  wardrobe,  and  hunted 
about  for  a  time  until  she  found  the  newspaper  cutting, 
which  she  brought  back  and  put  before  him  on  the  dressing- 
table.     This  was  what  he  took  up  and  read, — 

"  FOR  SffENA'S  NEW-YEA.R'S  DAY  MORXIxa 

*'  Her  eyes  are  dark  and  soft  and  blue, 
She's  light-stepped  as  the  roe  : 
O  Shena,  Shena,  my  heart  is  true 
To  you  where'er  you  go. 

"  I  wish  that  I  were  by  the  rills 
Above  the  Allt-cam-ban; 
And  wandering  with  me  o'er  the  hills, 
My  own  dear  Shena  Van. 

"Far  other  sights  and  scenes  I  view: 
The  year  goes  out  in  snow : 
O  Shena,  Shena,  my  heart  is  true 
To  you  where'er  you  go." 

"  Well,"  said  he,  contemptuously  throwing  down  again 
the  piece  of  paper,  "  you  don't  suppose  Archie  wrote  that 
i-ubbish  ?     That  isn't  his  line." 

"  It's  a  line  that  most  lads  take  at  a  certain  age,*'said 
Mrs.  Graham,  shrewdly. 

''  More  likely  some  moonstruck  ploughboy  !  "  her  hus- 
band interjected;  for  indeed  he  did  not  seem  to  think 
much  of  those  verses,  which  she  regarded  with  some  fond- 
ness. 

"  I  am  afraid,"  said  she,  looking  at  the  lines,  "  that  the 
ploughboys  in  this  part  of  the  world  don't  know  quite  as 
much  English  as  all  that  comes  to.     And  how  many  pe.)])le 


YOLANDE.  191 

do  you  think  now,  Jim,  have  ever  heard  of  the  Allt-cam* 
ban  ?  And  then  Shena,  how  many  people  have  ever  heard 
of  Janet  Stewart's  nickname?  There  is  another  tiling. 
TlioRe  verses  appeared  when  Archie  was  at  Edinburgh,  and 
of  course  he  knew  very  well  that,  although  he  was  not 
jiilowed  to  write  to  her,  the  Inverness  Courier  will  make 
as  way  into  the  manse.     1  think  they  are  very  pretty. 

*  O  Shena,  Shena,  ray  heart  is  true 
To  you  where'er  you  go.' 

That  is  the  worst  of  marrying  an  old  man.  They  never 
write  poetry  about  you." 

"  You  call  that  poetry  !  "  he  said. 

'*  Well,  good-by,  Jim.  I  will  tell  Mackenzie  when  he  is 
to  meet  me  at  Fort  Augustus." 

*' Bring  back  Yolande  Winterbourne  with  you,"  said 
Colonel  Graham,  who  had  now  about  finished  his  toilette. 

"How  can  I,  without  asking  her  father?  And  there 
wouldn't  be  room." 

"  I  don't  want  her  father.  I  want  her.  There  is  no 
fun  in  having  a  whole  houseful  of  married  women." 

"  I  quite  agree  with  you.  And  who  wanted  them  ? 
Certainly  not  I.  There  is  only  one  thing  more  absurd  than 
having  nothing  but  married  women  in  the  house,  and  that 
is  having  nothing  but  married  men.  But  you  have  had  a 
warning  this  year,  Jim.  Everybody  acknowledges  that 
there  never  was  such  bad  shooting.  I  hope  another  year 
you  will  get  one  or  two  younger  men  who  know  what 
shooting  is,  and  who  can  climb.  Well,  good-by,  Jim." 
And  presently  pretty  Mrs.  Graham  was  seated  in  a  light 
little  v/agonette  of  polished  oak,  the  reins  in  her  hand,  and 
a  pair  of  stout  little  ponies  trotting  away  down  through  the 
wooded  and  winding  deeps  of  Glenstroy. 

It  was  a  long  drive  to  Fort  Augustus  ;  and  although 
from  time  to  time  a  refrain  went  echoing  through  her 
head, — 

"  O  Shena,  Shena,  my  heart  is  true 
To  you  where'er  you  go," 

and  apparently  connecting  itself  somehow  with  tLe  patter- 
ing of  the  horses'  feet  on  the  road,  still  her  brain  was  far 
from  being  idle.  This  expedition  was  entirely  of  her  own 
proper  choice  and  motion.  In  truth  she  had  been  alarmed 
by  the  very  fact  that  the  Master  of  Lvnn  had  ceased  to  wish 


192  YOLANDE. 

for  her  interference.  He  had  refused  to  urge  his  case  fur- 
ther. If  the  people  at  Lynn  Towers  were  blind  to  their  own 
interests,  they  might  remain  so.  He  was  not  going  to  argue 
and  stir  up  domestic  dissension.  He  would  not  allow  Yo- 
lande's  name  to  be  drawn  into  any  such  brawl ;  and  certainly 
he  would  not  suffer  any  discussion  of  herself  or  hfer  merits. 
All  this  Mrs.  Graham  gathered  vaguely  from  one  or  two 
letters,  and  as  she  considered  the  situation  as  being  obviously 
dangerous,  she  had,  at  great  inconvenience  to  herself,  left 
her  house  full  of  guests,  and  was  now  about  to  see  what 
could  be  done  at  I  ynn  Towers. 

When  she  reached  Fort  Augustus,  Archie  Leslie  was 
waiting  for  her  there  at  the  hotel,  and  she  found  him  in  the 
same  mood.  He  did  not  wish  to  have  anything  said  about 
the  matter.  He  professed  to  be  indifferent.  He  assumed 
that  his  sister  had  come  on  an  ordinary  filial  visit,  and  he 
had  luncheon  ready  for  her.  He  said  she  was  looking  pret- 
tier than  ever  ;  and  was  anxious  to  know  whether  they  had 
done  well  with  the  shooting  at  Investroy. 

*'  Now  look  here,  Archie,"  said  she,  when  the  waiter  had 
finally  left  the  room,  "  let  us  understand  each  other.  You 
know  what  I  have  come  about — at  some  trouble  to  myself. 
There  is  no  use  in  your  making  the  thing  more  difficult  than 
needs  be.  And  you  know  perfectly  well  that  matters  can- 
not remain  as  they  are." 

"  I  know  perfectly  well  that  matters  cannot  remain  as 
they  are,"  he  repeated,  with  some  touch  of  irony,  "  for  this 
excellent  reason,  that  in  the  course  of  time  the  Winter- 
bournes  will  be  going  south,  and  that  as  Mr.  Winterbourne 
has  never  been  within  the  doors  of  Lynn  Towers,  and  isn't 
likely  to  be,  he  will  draw  his  own  conclusions.  Probably  he 
has  done  so  already.  I  haven't  seen  much  of  him  since  his 
friend  Shortlands  came.  Very  likely  he  already  under- 
stands why  our  family  have  taken  no  notice  of  them,  and  I 
know  he  is  too  proud  a  man  to  allow  his  daughter  to  be 
mixed  up  in  any  domestic  squabble.  They  will  go  south. 
That  will  be— Good-by." 

"  But,  my  dear  Master,"  his  sister  protested,  "  if  you 
would  only  show  a  little  conciliation — " 

"What!"  he  said,  indignantly.  "Do  you  think  I  am 
going  to  beg  for  an  invitation  for  Mr.  Winterbourne?  f>o 
you  expect  me  to  go  and  ask  that  Yolande  should  be  re- 
ceived at  Lynn  Towers  ?  I  think  not !  I  don't  quite  seo 
my  way  to  tliat  yet." 


YOLANDE.  193 

"Yon  needn't  be  angry — " 

"But  it  is  so  absurd!"  he  exclaimed.  "What  have 
Winterbourne's  politics  to  do  with  Yolande  ?  Supposing 
he  wanted  to  blow  up  the  House  of  Lords  with  dynamite, 
what  has  that  got  to  do  with  her?  It  is  Burke's  Peerage 
that  is  at  the  bottom  of  all  this  nonsense.  If  every  blessed 
copy  of  that  book  were  burued  out  of  the  woi-ld,  they 
wouldn't  have  another  word  to  say.  It  is  the  fear  of  see- 
ing 'daughter  of  Mr.  Winterbourne,  M.  P.  for  Slngpool,' 
that  is  setting  them  crazy.  That  comes  of  living  out  of  the 
world  ;  that  comes  of  being  toadied  by  gillies  and  tOAvn 
councillors.  But  I  am  not  going  to  trouble  about  it,"  said 
he,  with  a  sudden  air  of  indifference.  "  I  am  not  going  to 
make  a  fuss.     They  can  go  their  way  ;  I  can  go  mine." 

"  Yes,  and  the  Winterbournea  will  go  theirs,"  said  his 
sister,  sharplv. 

"  Vei-y  well." 

"  But  it  is  not  very  well ;  it  is  very  ill.  Come  now, 
Archie,  be  reasonable.  You  know  the  trouble  1  had  before 
I  married  Jim  ;  it  was  got  over  by  a  little  patience  and  dis- 
cretion." 

"Oh,  if  you  think  I  aim  going  to  cringe  and  crawl  about 
for  their  consent,  you  are  quite  mistaken.  I  would  not  put 
Yolande  Winterbourne  into  such  a  position.  Why,"  said 
he,  with  some  sense  of  injury  in  his  tone,  "  I  like  the  way 
they  talk — as  if  they  were  asked  to  sacrifice  something  !  If 
there  is  any  sacrifice  in  the  case,  it  seems  to  me  that  I  am 
making  it,  not  they.  lam  doing  what  I  think  best  for  Lynn, 
that  has  always  been  starved  for  want  of  money.  Very 
well ;  if  they  don't  like  it,  they  can  leave  it  alone,  I  am  not 
going  to  beg  for  any  favor  in  the  matterv." 

"  It  might  be  as  well  not  to  talk  of  any  sacrifice,"  said 
his  sister,  quietly,  and  yet  with  some  significance.  "I  don't 
think  there  will  be  much  sacrifice.  Well,  now,  I'm  ready, 
Archie  :  what  have  you  brought — the  dogcart  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

Shortly  thereafter  they  set  out  for  Lynn  ;  and  they  did 
not  resume  this  conversation  ;  for  as  they  had  to  climb  the 
steep  road  leading  into  Glendoe,  the  Master  got  down  and 
walked,  leaving  the  reins  to  his  sister.  They  passed  through 
the  deep  woods,  and  up  and  out  on  to  the  open  heights.  They 
skirted  the  solitary  little  lake  that  lies  in  a  mountain-cup 
up  there.     And  then,  in  due  time,  they  came  in  sight  of  the 


194  YOLAKDE 

inland  country — a  board  and  variegated  plain,  with  here 
and  there  a  farmhouse  or  village. 

They  came  in  sight  of  something  else  too — the  figure  of 
a  young  woman  who  was  coming  along  the  road.  Mrs. 
Graham's  eyes  were  fixed  on  that  solitary  person  for  some 
time  before  she  exclaimed, — 

"  Archie,  do  you  see  who  that  is  ?  " 

"  Of  course  I  do,"  said  he,  not  with  the  best  grace. 

"It  is  she,  isn't  it?"  she  said,  eagerly. 

"  I  suppose  you  can  see  that  for  yourself,"  was  the 
answer. 

"  Perhaps  it  isn't  the  first  time  to-day  that  you  have  met 
her?"  said  she,  looking  up  with  a  quick  scrutiny. 

"  If  you  want  to  know,  I  have  not  set  eyes  on  her  since 
last  Christmas.     She  has  been  living  in  Inverness." 

He  pulled  up.  This  young  lady  whom  they  now  stoppe<l 
to  speak  to  was  a  good-looking  girl  of  about  twenty,  with 
light  brown  hair  and  very  dark  blue  eyes.  There  was  some 
firmness  and  shrewdness  of  character  in  the  face,  despite 
the  shyness  that  was  also  very  visible  there.  For  the  rest, 
she  was  neatly  dressed— in  something  of  a  town  style. 

She  merely  nodded  to  the  Master,  who  took  off  his  hat ; 
but  as  she  was  on  Mrs.  Graham's  side  of  the  dog  cart,  she 
shook  hands  with  that  lady,  and  her  bright,  fresh-colored 
upturned  face  had  something  of  diflidence  or  self-consciuus- 
ness  in  it. 

"  Oh,  how  do  you  do,  Miss  Stewart  ?  It  is  such  a  long 
time  since  I  have  seen  you?  "  said  Mrs.  Graham. 

"  You  do  not  come  often  to  Lynn  now,  Mrs.  Graham," 
said  Miss  Stewart,  with  just  a  touch  of  a  very  pretty  accent, 
"and  I  have  been  living  in  Inverness." 

"  Oh,  indeed.     And  how  are  the  people  at  the  manse?  '* 

They  chatted  in  the  ordinary  fashion  for  a  few  minutes, 
and  then  the  Master  of  Lynn  drove  on  again — in  silence. 
Mrs.  Graham  ventured  to  repeat,  apparently  to  herself, 
though  he  must  have  overheard, 

**  And  wandering  with  me  o'er  the  hills, 
My  own  dear  Sheua  Van  ; " 

but  if  he  did  overhear,  he  took  no  notice,  and  certainly  he 
betrayed  neither  confusion  nor  annoyance.  Perhaps  the 
verses  were  not  his,  after  all?  The  minister's  daughter 
was  the  belle  of  those  parts;  she  had  had  many  admirers ; 


YOLANDE.  195 

and  the  Ir.verness  Courier  was  the  nattiral  medium  for  the 
expression  of  their  woes.  Still,  Mrs.  Graham  asked  herself 
how  many  people  in  the  world  knew  of  the  existence  of  the 
AIlt-cam-Ban,  far  away  in  the  solitudes  over  Allt-nam-ba. 

Mrs.  Graham,  as  it  turned  out,  had  a  terrible  time  of  it 
with  her  father.  This  short,  thickset  man  with  the  volumi 
nous  brown  and  gray  beard,  shaggy  eyebrows,  and  bald 
head  surmounted  by  a  black  velvet  skull-cap,  was  simply 
furious  ;  and  so  far  from  being  affected  in  any  degree  by 
his  daughter's  blandishments,  he  seemed  inclined  to  direct 
his  wrath  upon  her  as  the  chief  aider  and  abettor  of  her 
brother's  high  treason.  Nor  was  his  lordship's  language 
marked  by  much  gentleness  or  reticence. 

"  The  idea,"  he  exclaimed,  "  that  Dochfour,  and  Lochiel, 
and  Culloden,  and  the  rest  of  them,  might  have  to  rub 
shoulders  with  a  low,  scoundrelly  Radical !  The  mere 
chance  of  such  a  thing  happening  is  monstrous." 

"  I  beg  to  remind  you,  papa,"  said  Mrs.  Graham,  with 
her  face  grown  a  little  pale,  "that  my  husband  is  not  in  the 
habit  of  associating  with  low  scoundrels  of  any  kind.  And 
I  would  rather  not  hear  such  things  said  about  the  father  of 
my  particular  friend." 

Then  she  saw  that  that  line  would  not  do. 

"  Papa,"  she  pleaded,  "  a  little  civility  costs  nothing. 
Why  should  you  not  call?  You  must  have  known  it  was 
this  Mr.  Winterbourne  who  had  taken  the  shooting  when 
we  telegraphed  you  from  Malta." 

"  I  must  have  known  ?  I  did  know  !  What  has  that  to 
do  with  it  ?  I  do  not  let  my  friendship  with  my  shootings. 
What  my  tenant  may  be  is  nothing  to  me,  so  long  as  he 
can  pay;  and  he  is  welcome  to  everything  he  can  find  on 
the  shooting ;  but  it  does  not  follow  he  is  entitled  to  sit 
down  at  my  table,  or  that  I  shall  sit  down  at  his." 

"  But  you  were  very  kind  to  Yolande  Winterbourne 
when  she  came  up  at  first,  and  you  knew  whose  daughter 
she  was,"  pretty  Mrs.  Graham  pleaded  again. 

"  I  did  not  know  that  that  young  jackass  proposed  to 
make  her  one. of  the  family — it  is  too  great  an  honor  alto- 
gether." 

"  You  know,  papa,  it  is  such  a  pity  to  make  trouble 
when  it  is  not  likely  to  help.  Archie  can  marry  whom  he 
pleases — " 

"  Let  him,  and  welcome  !  "  said  this  fierce  old  gentle* 


196  YOLANDE. 

man.  "  He  can  marry  whom  he  pleases,  but  he  cannot 
compel  me  to  associate  with  his  wife's  father." 

She  went  away  somewhat  crestfallen,  and  sought  out 
the  Master,  whom  she  found  in  one  of  the  greenhouses. 

"  Well  ?  "  said  he,  with  a  smile,  for  he  had  anticipated 
the  result. 

"  His  lordship  does  seem  opinionated  about  it,"  she  had 
to  confess.  "And  yet  I  think  I  could  talk  him  over  if  only 
Aunt  Colquhoun  were  absent.  I  suppose  she  will  be  back 
from  Foyers  by  dinner-time." 

"  I  wish  she  were  sewn  in  a  sack,  and  at  the  bottom  of 
Loch  Ness,"  said  he. 

"Archie,  for  shame!  You  see,"  she  added,  thought- 
fully, "  I  must  get  back  to  Fort  Augustus  by  four  to-morrow 
afternoon.  And  I  haven't  come  all  this  way  without  being 
resolved  to  see  Yolande  before  I  go.  That  leaves  me  little 
time.  But  still — .  Have  you  asked  Mr.  Melville  to  speak 
to  papa  ?  " 

"No.  Jack  Melville  and  I  nearly  quarrelled  over  it,  so 
I  dropped  the  subject.  He  doesn't  understand  matters, 
don't  you  know,  Polly ;  he  doesn't  understand  what  the 
improvement  of  a  poor  estate  costs.  He  has  forgotten  his 
Horace — pennis  non  homini  datis — that  means  that  human 
beings  aren't  born  with  enough  money.  He  made  quite  a 
fuss  when  I  showed  him  tbat  there  were  prudential  reasons 
for  the  match,  as  if  there  were  any  use  in  blinding  one's 
eyes  to  obvious  facts.  Well,  I  don't  care.  I  have  done  my 
best.  My  intentions  toward  Lynn  were  sincere  and  honor- 
able  ;  now  they  can  make  abash  of  the  whole  thing  if  they 
like." 

*'  It  is  folly  speaking  like  that,"  his  sister  said,  sharply. 
"  Surely  you  have  too  much  spirit  to  yield  to  a  little  oppo- 
sition of  this  kind." 

"A  little  opposition  !"  he  said,  with  a  laugh.  "It's 
about  as  bulky  as  Borlum  Hill ;  and  I  for  one  am  not  go- 
ing to  ram  ray  head  against  it.     I  prefer  a  quiet  life." 

"  But  you  are  bound  in  honor  to  Yolande  Winter- 
bourne  not  to  let  the  engagement  cease,"  she  cried.  "  Why, 
to  think  of  such  a  thing  !  You  ask  a  girl  to  marry  you  ; 
she  consents ;  and  then  you  throw  her  over  because  this 
person  or  that  person  objects.  Well,  I  never  heard  of  one 
of  the  Leslies  acting  that  way  before.  I  was  only  a  girl, 
but  I  showed  them  what  stuff  I  was  made  of  when  they 
tried  to  interfere  with  me." 


YOLANDE.  197 

"  Oh,  but  that's  different,"  he  said,  coolly.  **  Girls  are 
romantic  creatures.  They  rather  like  a  shindy.  Whereas 
men  prefer  a  quiet  life." 

"  Well,  I  never  heard  the  like  of  that — " 

"  Wait  a  minute.  I  am  going  to  talk  to  you  plainly, 
Polly,"  said  he.  "  I  wanted  to  marry  Janet  Stewart ;  and 
I  dare  say  she  would  have  had  me  if  I  had  definitely  asked 
her—" 

"  I  dare  say  she. would." 

"  Oh,  you  tliink  slie  hasn't  as  much  pride  as  anybody 
else  because  she  is  only  a  minister's  daughter  ?  That  is 
all  you  know  about  her.  However,  they  all  made  such  a 
row,  and  you  especially,  that  I  consented  to  let  the  alfair 
go.  No  doubt  that  was  wise.  I  was  young.  She  had  no 
money,  and  Lynn  wanted  money.  Very  well.  I  made  no 
objection.  But  you  will  observe,  my  dear  Miss  Polly, 
that  when  these  stumbling-blocks  are  again  and  again  put 
into  the  road,  even  the  most  patient  of  animals  may  begin 
to  get  fractious,  and  might  even  kick  over  the  traces.  At 
present  I  hope  I  am  not  in  a  rage.  But  I  am  older  now 
than  I  was  then,  and  not  in  the  least  bit  inclined  to  be 
made  a  fool  of." 

"  And  do  you  really  mean  to  say,"  said  Mrs.  Graham, 
with  her  pretty  dark  gray  eyes  regarding  him  with  aston- 
ishment, "  that  you  are  deliberately  prepared  to  jilt  Yo- 
lande  Winterbourne  merely  on  account  of  this  little  diffi- 
culty ?  " 

"  It  isn't  my  doing,"  said  he.  "  Besides,  they  seem  bent 
on  piling  up  about  three  cart-loads  of  difficulty.  Life  isn't 
long  enough  to  begin  and  shovel  that  away.  And  if  they 
don't  want  to  have  Corrievreak  back,  I  dare  say  Sir  John 
will  be  quite  willing  to  keep  it." 

"  I  don't  think  I  will  speak  to  papa  again  until  after 
dinner,"  said  she,  musingly.  "Then  I  will  have  another 
try — with  Corrievreak." 


198  YOLANDE. 


CHAPTER  XXV. 

THE    AMBAgSADOE. 

Now  Jack  Melville,  or  Melville  of  Monaglcn,  as  Mrs, 
Bell  (with  her  own  dark  purposes  always  in  view)  proudly 
preferred  to  call  him,  had  not  only  decided  that  the  Mas- 
ter of  Lynn  should  know  that  Yolande's  mother  was  alive, 
but  he  had  also  undertaken  himself  to  tell  him  all  the  facts 
of  the  case,  to  Mr.  Winterbourne's  great  relief.  Accord- 
ingly, one  afternoon  he  gave  the  school-children  a  half- 
holiday,  and  walked  over  to  Lynn.  He  met  the  Muster  at 
the  wooden  bridge  adjoining  Lynn  Towers,  and  also  the 
dog-cart  conveying  Mrs.  Graham  back  to  Fort  Augustus. 

"  There  she  goes,"  said  young  Leslie,  sardonically,  as 
he  regarded  the  disappearing  vehicle.  "  She  is  a  well-in- 
tentioned party.  She  thinks  she  can  talk  people  over. 
She  thinks  that  when  people  are  in  a  temper  they  will  lis- 
ten to  common-sense.  And  she  hasn't  even  now  learned  a 
lesson.  She  thinks  she  would  have  succeeded  with  more 
time  ;  but  of  course  she  has  to  get  back  to  Inverstroy. 
And  she  still  believes  she  would  have  had  her  own  way  if 
she  had  had  a  day  or  two  to  spare." 

"  What  is  the  matter? " 

*'  Oh,  nothing  much,"  said  the  other,  carelessly.  "  Only 
his  lordship  in  a  fury  at  the  idea  of  my  marrying  the 
daughter  of  a  Radical.  And  of  course  it  isn't  the  slightest 
use  pointing  out  that  Mr.  Winterbourne's  Radicalism  gen- 
erally consists  in  opposing  what  is  really  a  Radical  govern- 
ment ;  and  it  isn't  the  slightest  use  pointing  out  that  poli- 
tics don't  run  in  the  blood,  and  that  Yolande  has  no  more 
wish  to  destroy  the  British  Constitution  than  I  have.  How- 
ever, what  is  the  consequence?  They  can  fight  it  out 
amongst  themselves." 

But  Melville  did  not  seem  inclined  to  treat  the  matter 
in  this  offhand  way.  His  thoughtful  face  was  more  grave 
than  was  its  wont.     After  a  second  or  two  he  said, — 

''  Look  here,  Archie,  I  have  got  something  to  say  to  you. 
Will  you  walk  along  the  strath  a  bit  ?  " 

"You  are  going  to  try  the  loch?"  said  the  Master, 


YOLANDE,  199 

observing  that  his  companion  had  his  fishing-rod  under  his 
arm. 

"  Yes,  for  an  hour  or  so,  if  they  are  rising." 
"  I  will  come  and  manage  the  boat  for  you,  then,"  said 
the  other,  good-naturedly. 

"  Then  we  can  go  on   together  to  Allt-nara-Ba.     You 
are  dining  there,  I  suppose." 

"  Well,  no,"  said  young  Leslie,  with  a  trifle  of  embar- 
rassment. 

"But  I  was  told  I  should  meet  you." 
"  I  was  asked.  Well,  you  see,  the  lodge  is  small,  and  it 
isn't  fair  to  overcrowd  it,  and  give  Yolande  so  much  more 
nousekeeping  trouble.  Then  Macpherson  may  come  down 
from  Inverness  any  afternoon  almost  to  arrange  about  the 
Glendyerg  march.  We  have  come  to  a  compromise  about 
that — anything  is  better  than  a  lawsuit — and  the  gully  just 
above  the  watcher's  bothy  remains  ours,  which  is  the  chief 
thing." 

But  Melville  was  not  to  be  put  off.  He  knew  this 
young  man. 

"  What  it  the  real  reason  of  your  not  going  up  to  Allt- 
nam-Ba  this  evening?  " 

"  Well,  I  will  tell  you,  if  you  want  to  know.  The  real 
reason  is  that  my  people  have  treated  the  Winterbournes 
badly,  and  I  am  ashamed  of  it,  and  I  don't  want  to  go  near 
the  place  more  than  I  can  help.  If  they  imagine  we  are  all 
very  busy  at  Lynn,  that  may  be  some  excuse  for  neither  my 
father  nor  my  aunt  having  had  the  common  civility  to  call 
at  the  lodge.  But  I  am  afraid  Mr.  Winterbourne  suspects 
the  true  state  of  affairs,  and  of  course  that  puts  me  into 
rather  a  difficult  "nosition  when  I  am  at  Allt-nam-Ba  ;  and 
when  you  see  a  difficult  position  before  you,  the  best  thing 
you  can  do  is  not  to  step  into  it." 

"  And  do  you  expect  everything  to  be  made  smooth  and 
comfortable  for  you  ?  "  said  Melville,  almost  angrily.  "  Don't 
you  expect  to  have  any  trouble  at  all  in  the  world  ?  When 
you  meet  the  difficulties  of  life,  is  your  only  notion  to  turn 
away  and  run  from  them  ?  " 

"  Yes,  as  fast  as  I  can  and  as  far  as  I  can.  Look  here, 
Jack,  different  people  have  different  views :  it  doesn'^ 
follow  that  you  are  right  because  you  look  at  things  not  as 
I  do.  You  think  common-sense  contemptible;  I  think 
Quixotism  contemptible  ;  it  cuts  both  ways,  you  see.  I  say 
distinctly  that  a  man  who  accepts  trouble  when  he  can  avoid 


200  YOLANDE. 

it  is  an  ass.  I  know  there  are  lots  of  women  who  like  woe, 
who  relish  it  and  revel  in  it.  There  are  lots  of  women  who 
enjoy  nothing  so  much  as  a  funeral — the  blinds  all  down,  a 
mysterious  gloom  in  the  rooms,  and  weeping  relations  forti- 
fying themselves  all  day  long  against  their  grief  by  drinking 
glasses  of  muddy  port  wine  and  eating  buns.  Well,  I  don't. 
I  don't  like  woe.  I  believe  in  what  a  young  Scotch  fellow 
said  to  me  one  morning  on  board  ship  when  we  were  on 
the  way  out — I  think  he  was  a  bagman  from  Glasgow — at 
all  events  he  came  up  to  me  with  an  air  of  profound  con- 
viction on  his  face,  and  said, '  Man,  it's  a  seeckening  thing  to 
be  seeck  ! '  Well,  that  is  the  honest  way  of  looking  at  it. 
And  although  I  am  arguing  not  so  much  with  you  aa 
with  Polly,  still  I  may  as  well  say  to  you  what  I  said  to 
her  when  she  wanted  me  to  do  this,  that,  and  the  other 
thing:  '  No  ;  if  those  people  don't  see  it  would  be  to  their 
interest  and  to  everybody's  interest  that  this  marriage  should 
take  place,  they  are  welcome  to  their  opinion.  I  sha'n't  in- 
terfere. I  don't  mean  to  have  any  domestic  squabble  if  I 
can  help  it.     I  prefer  a  quiet  life.'  " 

By  this  time  they  had  reached  the  boat,  which  they 
di'agged  down  to  the  water  and  shoved  off,  the  Master  of 
Lynn  good-naturedly  taking  the  oars.  It  was  a  ],»leasant, 
warm  afternoon,  and  it  looked  a  likely  afternoon  for  fishing 
besides ;  but  it  was  in  a  very  silent  and  absent  fashion  that 
Jack  Melville  put  his  rod  together  and  began  to  look  over 
his  casts.  This  speech  of  the  young  Master's  was  no  reve- 
lation to  him  ;  he  had  known  all  that  before.  But,  coming 
in  just  at  this  moment,  it  seemed  to  make  the  task  he  had 
undertaken  more  and  more  difficult  and  dangerous ;  and 
indeed  there  flashed  across^  his  mind  once  or  twice  some 
wild  doubt  as  to  the  wisdom  of  his  decision,  although  that 
decision  had  not  been  arrived  at  without  long  and  anxious 
consideration. 

And  it  was  in  a  very  perfunctory  way  that  he  began  to 
throw  out  the  flies  upon  the  water,  insomuch  that  one  or 
two  rises  he  got  he  missed  through  carelessness  in  striking. 
In  any  case  the  trout  were  not  rising  freely,  and  so  at  length 
he  said, — 

"  Archie,  would  you  mind  rowing  over  to  the  other  side  ? 
One  of  the  shepherds  sent  me  word  that  the  char  have  come 
there,  and  Miss  Winterbourne  has  never  seen  one.  I  only 
want  one  or  two  to  show  her  what  they  are  like;  I  don't 
suppose  they  will  be  worth  cooking  just  now." 


YOLANDE.  201 

"  But  you  have  no  bait." 

"  I  can  manage  with  tlie  fly,  I  think." 

And  so  they  rowed  away  across  the  pretty  loch  on  this 
placid  afternoon;  the  while  Melville  took  off  the  cast  he  had 
been  using,  substituting  three  sea-trout  flies  of  the  most 
brilliant  hues.  Then,  when  they  had  got  to  the  other  side, 
Melville  made  for  a  "part  of  the  shore  where  the  banks 
seemed  to  go  very  sheer  down  ;  and  then  proceeded  to 
throw  the  flies  over  a  particular  part  of  the  water,  allowing 
them  slowly  to  sink.  It  was  an  odd  sort  of  fly-fishing,  if  it 
could  be  described  as  fly-fishing  at  all.  For  after  the  cast 
had  been  allowed  to  sink  some  couple  of  yards  or  so, 
the  flies  were  slowly  and  cautiously  trailed  along ;  then 
there  was  a  curious  sensation  as  if  an  eel  were  swallowing 
something  at  the  end  of  the  line — very  different  from  the 
quick  snap  of  a  trout — and  then,  as  he  carefully  wound  in 
the  reel  there  appeared  in  the  water  a  golden-yellow  thing. 
not  fighting  for  its  life  as  a  trout  would,  but  slowly,  oilily 
circling  this  way  and  that  until  a  scoop  of  the  small  landing- 
net  brought  the  lethargic,  feebly  flopping,  but  beautifully 
golden-and-red-spotted  fish  into  the  boat.  When  he  had 
got  the  two  that  he  wanted  he  had  done  with  that :  it  was 
not  sport.  And  then  he  sat  down  in  the  stern  of  the  boat, 
and  his  rod  was  idle. 

"  Archie,"  said  he,  "  there  is  something  better  in  you  than 
you  profess." 

"  Oh,  come,"  said  the  other,  "  char-fishing  isn't  exciting, 
but  it  is  better  than  a  lecture." 

"  This  is  serious,"  said  the  other,  quietly ;  *"  you  your- 
self will  admit  that  when  I  tell  you." 

And  then,  very  cautiously  at  first,  and  rather  in  a  round- 
about way,  he  told  him  the  whole  sad  story,  begging  him 
not  to  interrupt  until  he  had  finished,  and  trying  to  invoke 
the  young  man's  pity  and  sympathy  for  what  those  people 
had  suffered,  and  trying  to  put  their  action  in  a  natural 
light,  and  trying  to  make  clear  their  motives.  Who  was  to 
blame — the  indiscreet  sister  who  had  invented  the  story,  or 
the  foolishly  affectionate  father  who  could  not  confess  the 
truth — he  would  not  say  ;  he  would  rather  turn  to  consider 
what  they  had  attempted  and  succeeded  in  securing — what 
the  beautiful  child-nature  of  this  girl  should  grow  up  un- 
tainted with  sorrow  and  humiliation  and  pain. 

The  Master  of  Lynn  heard  him  patiently  to  the  end. 


202  YOLANDE. 

without  any  expressiou  of  surprise  or  any  other  emotion. 
Then  he  said, — 

"  I  suppose,  Jack,  you  have  been  asked  to  tell  me  all 
this  ;  most  likely  you  are  expected  to  take  an  answer.  Weil 
my  answer  is  clear.  Nothing  in  the  world  would  induce 
me  to  have  anything  to  do  with  such  a  system,  or  con 
gpiracy,  or  whatever  it  may  be  called.  You  may  think  the 
mcurring  of  all  this  suffering  is  fine ;  I  think  it  is  folly. 
but  that  is  not  the  point.  I  am  not  going  to  judge  them. 
I  have  to  decide  for  myself,  and  I  tell  you  frankly  I  am  not 
such  a  fool  as  to  bring  any  skeleton  into  my  cupboard.  I 
don't  want  my  steps  dogged  ;  I  don't  want  to  have  to  look 
at  the  morning  paper  with  fear.  If  I  had  married  and 
found  this  out  afterward,  I  should  have  said  I  had  been 
grossly  deceived  ;  and  now,  with  my  eyes  open,  I  consider 
I  should  be  behaving  very  badly  toward  my  family  if  I  let 
them  in  for  the  possibility  of  any  scandal  or  disgrace." 

"  Why,  man,  how  could  there  be  any  such  thing?  "  Mel- 
ville exclaimed  ;  but  he  was  interrupted. 

"  I  let  you  have  your  say ;  let  me  have  mine.  There  is 
no  use  beating  about  the  bush.  I  can  have  nothing  to  do 
with  any  such  thing ;  I  am  not  going  to  run  the  risk  of  any 
public  scandal  while  it  can  be  avoided." 

"  What  would  you  do,  then,  if  you  were  in  Winter- 
bourne's  position?" 

"  What  would  I  do  ?  What  I  would  not  do  would  be  to 
incur  a  life-long  martvrdom,  all  for  a  piece  of  sentimental 
folly." 

"  But  what  would  you  do  ?  I  want  to  know  what  you 
would  do." 

"  J  would  lock  the  woman  up  in  a  lunatic  asylum.  Cer- 
tainly I  would.  Why  should  such  a  system  of  terrorism  be 
permitted  ?  It  is  perfectly  absurd." 

"  You  cannot  lock  her  up  in  a  lunatic  asylum  unless 
she  is  a  lunatic,  and  the  poor  creature  does  not  seem  to  be 
that — not  yet,  at  least." 

"  I  would  lock  her  up  in  a  police  cell,  th6n." 

"  And  would  that  prevent  exposure  ?  " 

"  At  all  events,  it  would  prevent  her  going  down  and 
lying  in  wait  for  him  in  Westmister  Palace  Yard.  But  that 
is  not  the  point.  It  is  not  what  I  would  do  in  his  place-, 
it  is  what  I  am  going  to  do  in  my  own.  And  that  is  clear 
enough.  I  have  had  enough  bother  about  this  business  \ 
I  am  not  going  to  have  any  more.     I  am  not  going  to  have 


YOLANDE.  20a 

any  secrets  and  mysteries.  I  am  not  going  to  submit  to 
any  terrorism.  Before  I  marry  Yolande  Wintei'bourne  all 
that  affair  of  that  lunatic  creature  must  be  arranged,  and 
arranged  so  that  every  one  may  know  of  it  without  fear 
and  trembling  and  dissimulation." 

"  The  message  is  difinite,"  said  Melville,  absently,  as  his 
companion  took  up  the  oars  and  began  to  row  across  to  the 
other  side  of  the  loch. 

It  was  characteristic  of  this  man  that  he  should  now 
begin  and  try  to  look  at  this  declaration  from  young  Les- 
lie's point  of  view,  and  endeavor  to  convince  himself  of  its 
reasonableness ;  for  he  had  a  general  wish  to  approve  of 
people  and  their  ways  and  opinions,  having  in  the  long-run 
found  that  that  was  the  most  comfortable  way  of  getting 
along  in  the  world.  And  this  that  the  Master  had  just  said 
was,  regarded  from  his  own  position,  distinctly  reasonable. 
There  could  be  no  doubt  that  Mr.  Winterbourne  had  had 
his  life  preverted  and  tortured  mainly  through  his  trying  to 
hide  this  secret  from  his  daughter ;  and  it  was  but  natural 
that  a  young  man  should  be  unwilling  to  have  his  own  life 
clouded  over  in  like  manner.  Even  John  Shortlands  had 
not  sought  to  defend  his  friend  when  he  told  the  story  to 
Melville.  As  for  himself — that  is,  Melville — well,  he  could 
not  honestly  approve  of  what  Mr.  Winterbourne  had  done 
— except  when  he  heard  Yolande  laugh. 

They  rowed  over  to  the  other  side  in  silence,  and  there 
got  out. 

"  I  hope  I  did  not  use  any  harsh  terms,  Jack,"  the 
young  man  said.     "  But  the  thing  must  be  made  clear." 

"  I  have  been  wondering,"  said  the  other,  "whether  it 
would  not  have  been  better  if  I  had  held  my  tongue.  I 
don't  see  how  either  you  or  your  wife  could  ever  have  heard 
of  it." 

"  I  think  it  would  have  been  most  dishonorable  of  you 
to  have  known  that  and  to  have  kept  it  back  from  me" 

"Oh,  you  do?" 

"  Most  distinctly  I  do."    • 

"  There  is  some  consolation  in  that.  I  thought  I  was 
perhaps  acting  the  part  of  an  idle  busybody,  who  generally 
only  succeeds  in  making  mischief.  And  I  have  been  won- 
dering what  is  the  state  of  the  law.  I  really  don't  know. 
I  don't  know  whether  a  magistrate  would  consider  the  con- 
sumption of  those  infernal  drugs  to  be  drunkenness  ;  and  I 


204  YOLANDE. 

don't  even  know  whether  you  can  compulsorily  keep  in- 
confinement  one  who  is  a  confirmed  drunkard." 

"  You  may  very  well  imagine  that  I  don't  want  to  have 
anything  to  do  with  police  courts  and  police  magistrates, 
or  with  lunatic  asylums  either  when  I  get  married,"  said 
young  Leslie,  when  they  had  pulled  the  boat  up  on  the 
bank.  "  But  this  I  am  sure  of,  that  you  can  always  get 
sufficient  protection  from  the  law  from  annoyances  of  that 
sort,  if  you  choose  to  appeal  to  it.  On  the  other  hand,  if 
you  don't,  if  you  try  to  shelter  people  from  having  their 
deserts,  if  you  go  in  for  private  and  perfectly  hopeless 
remedies,  then  you  have  to  stand  the  consequences.  I  de- 
clare to  you  that  nothing  would  induce  me  to  endure  for 
even  a  week  the  anxiety  that  seems  to  have  haunted  Win- 
terbourne  for  years  and  years." 

'•  But  then  he  is  so  desperately  fond  of  Yolande,  you 
see,"  Jack  Melville  said,  with  a  glance. 

Leslie  flushed  slightly. 

"  I  think  you  are  going  too  far." 

"  Oh,  I  hope  not.  I  only  stated  a  fact.  Come,  now, 
Archie,"  he  said,  in  his  usual  friendly  way,  "  call  your 
common-sense  to  you,  that  you  are  so  proud  of.  You  know 
I  feel  myself  rather  responsible.  I  don't  want  to  think  I 
have  made  any  mischief — " 

"  You  have  made  no  mischief.  I  say  you  would  have 
acted  most  dishonorably  if  you  had  kept  this  back." 

"  Well,  now,  take  a  rational  view  of  the  situation.  No 
doubt  you  are  vexed  and  annoyed  by  the  opposition  at  home. 
That  is  natural.  No  one  likes  his  relatives  to  object  when 
he  knows  that  he  has  the  right  and  the  power  to  choose  for 
himself.  But  don't  transfer  your  annoyance  over  tliat 
matter  to  this,  which  is  quite  different.  Consider  yourself 
married,  and  living  at  Allt-nam-Ba  or  at  Lynn  ;  how  can 
the  existence  of  this  poor  creature  effect  you  in  any  way  ? 
And,  moreover,  the  poor  woman  can  not  live  long — " 

"  She  might  live  long  enough  to  break  some  more 
windows,  and  get  everybody's  name  into  the  paper,"  said 
he.  "  You  don't  suppose  we  should  always  be  living  in  the 
Highlands?" 

''  I  want  you  to  come  along  with  me  now  to  the  lodge  ; 
and  you  can  say  that,  after  all,  you  found  you  could  come 
to  dinner — there  never  were  people  so  charmingly  free  from, 
ceremony  of  anj  kind  ;  and  after  dinner  you  will  tell  Mf. 
Wiuterbourne  that  ceitainly  you  yourself  might  not  have 


YOLANDE.  205 

been  prepared  to  do  what  he  has  done  during  these  years 
for  Yolande's  sake,  and  perhaps  that  you  could  not  approve 
of  it ;  but  that  for  the  short  time  likely  to  elapse  you  would 
be  content  also  to  keep  silence ;  and  you  might  even  un- 
dertake to  live  in  the  Highlands  until  death  should  remove 
that  poor  creature  and  all  possible  source  of  annoyance. 
That  would  be  a  friendly,  natural,  humane  sort  of  thing  to 
do,  and  ho  would  be  grateful  to  you.  You  owe  him  a 
little.  He  is  giving  you  his  only  daughter  ;  and  you  need 
not  be  afraid — he  will  make  it  easy  for  you  to  buy  back 
Corrievreak  and  do  all  the  other  things  you  were  speaking 
of.     I  think  you  might  do  that." 

"  Midsummer  madness !  "  the  other  exclaimed,  with 
some  show  of  temper.  "  I  can't  imagine  how  you  could  ex- 
pect such  a  thing.  Our  family  is  old  enough  to  be  haunted 
by  a  ghost,  and  we  haven't  started  one  yet ;  but  when  we 
do  start  one,  it  won't  be  a  police-court  sort  of  ghost,  I  can 
assure  you.  It  is  hard  luck  when  one  of  one's  own  relatives 
goes  to  the  bad — I've  seen  that  often  enough  in  families; 
but  voluntarily  to  take  over  some  one's  relative  who  has 
gone  to  the  bad,  without  even  the  common  protection  of 
the  policeman  and  the  magistrate — no,  thanks  !  " 

"  Then  that  is  your  message,  I  suppose." 

"  Most  distinctly.  I  am  not  going  into  any  conspiracy 
of  secrecy  and  terrorism — certainly  not.  I  told  you  that  I 
liked  a  quiet  life.  I  am  not  going  to  bother  about  other 
people's  family  affairs — assuredly  I  am  not  going  to  submit 
to  any  persecution  or  any  possibility  of  persecution,  how- 
ever remote,  about  them." 

"  Very  well." 

"Don't  put  it  harshly.  I  wish  to  be  reasonable.  I  say 
they  have  been  unreasonable  and  foolish,  and  I  don't  want 
to  involve  myself  in  the  consequences.  When  I  marry,  I 
surely  must  have,  as  every  human  being  in  the  country  has, 
the  right  to  appeal  to  the  law.  I  cannot  have  my  mouth 
gagged  by  their  absurd  secrets." 

"  Very  well." 

*'  And  I  fancy,"  the  Master  of  Lynn  added,  as  his  eye 
caught  a  figure  that  had  just  come  in  sight,  far  away  up 
the  strath,  "that  that  is  Yolande  Winterbourne  herself. 
You  need  not  say  that  I  had  seen  her  before  1  left."  And 
so  he  turned  and  walked  away  in  the  direction  of  Lynn 
Towers. 

And  was  this  indeed  Yolande?     Well,  he  would   meet 


206  YOLANDE 

her  with  an  unclouded  face,  for  she  was  quick  to  observe  ^ 
and  all  his  talk  would  be  about  the  golden  char,  and  the 
beautiful  afternoon,  and  the  rubber  of  whist  they  sometimes 
had  now  after  dinner.     And  yet  he  was  thinking. 

"  I  wonder  if  ray  way  would  do,"  he  was  saying  to  him- 
self as  he  still  regarded  that  advancing  figure.  "  Perhaps  it 
is  Quixotic,  as  Archie  would  say.  Statistics  are  against 
me,  and  statistics  are  horribly  sure  things,  but  sometimes 
they  don't  apply  to  individual  cases.  Perhaps  I  have  no 
business  to  interfere.  No  matter  ;  this  evening  at  least  she 
shall  go  home  to  dinner  with  a  light  heart.  She  does  not 
know  that  I  am  going  to  give  her  my  Jjinncea  horealisP 

The  tall  figure  now  advancing  to  him  was  undoubtedly 
that  of  Yolande,  and  he  guessed  that  she  was  smiling.  She 
had  brought  out  for  a  run  the  dogs  that  had  been  left  in  the 
kennel ;  they  were  chasing  all  about  the  hillside  and  the 
road  in  front  of  her.  The  light  of  the  sunset  was  on  her 
face. 

"Good-evening,  Mis&Winterbourne,"  said  he,  when  they 
met. 

"But  I  am  going  to  ask  you  to  call  me  Yolande,"  said 
she,  quite  frankly  and  simply,  as  she  turned  to  walk  back 
with  him  to  Allt-nam-Ba  ;  "  for  I  have  not  many  friends, 
and  I  like  them  all  to  call  me  Yolande." 


CHAPTER  XXVI. 

A  WALK  HOME. 

"  But  was  not  that  Mr.  Leslie  ?  "  she  said. 

"  Oh  yes,  it  was,''  he  answered,  with  an  assumed  air  of 
indifference.  "  Yes.  It  is  a  pity  he  cannot  dine  with  you 
this  evening." 

"  But  why  did  he  not  come  along  now,  for  a  minute 
even,  when  he  was  so  far?" 

She  certainly  was  surprised,  and  there  was  nothing  foi 
him  but  to  adopt  the  somewhat  lame  excuses  that  the  Master 
in  the  first  instance  had  offered  him. 

"  I  think  he  is  expecting  a  lawyer  from  Inverness,"  said 
he,  rather  quickly  slurring  over  the    various  statements, 


YOLANDE.  207 

"  and  if  he  came  by  the  afternoon  boat  he  would  be  due  just 
about  now.  They  have  a  good  deal  of  business  on  hand 
just  now  at  Lynn." 

"Yes,  apparently  that  is  true,"  she  said,  with  rather  a 
singular  gesture — very  slight,  but  significant.  "  We  have 
not  seen  anything  of  them." 

"  Well,  you  see,"  he  continued,  in  the  most  careless  and 
cheerful  way,  "no  doubt  they  know  your  father  is  occupied 
with  the  shooting,  and  you  with  your  amateur  housekeeping 
— which  I  am  told  is  perfect.  Mr.  Shortlands  says  the  lodge 
is  beautifully  managed." 

"Ah,  does  he?  "  said  she,  with  a  quick  flush  of  genuine 
pleasure.  "  I  am  glad  to  hear  that.  Ah,  it  is  very  simple 
now — oh  yes,  for  they  are  all  so  diligent  and  punctual.  And 
now  I  have  more  and  more  time  for  my  botany,  and  I  am 
beginning  to  understand  a  little  more  of  the  arrangement, 
and  it  is  interesting." 

"  I  consider  you  have  done  very  well,"  said  he — "  so  well 
that  you  deserve  a  reward." 

"  Ah,  a  prize  ?  "  said  she,  with  a  laugh.  "  Do  you  give 
prizes  at  your  school  ?  Well  now— let  me  see — what  shall  I 
choose  ?    A  box  of  chocolates." 

"  Did  they  allow  you  to  choose  your  own  prizes  at 
Chateau  Cold  Floors  ?  We  don't  do  that  here.  No  ;  the 
reward  I  have  in  store  for  you  is  the  only  specimen  I  have 
got  of  the  Linncea  borealis — the  only  plant  that  bears  the 
name  of  the  great  master  himself,  and  such  a  beautiful  plant 
too  !  I  don't  think  you  are  likely  to  find  it  about  here.  [ 
got  mine  at  Clova ;  but  you  can  get  everything  at  Clova." 

"  It  is  so  kind  of  you  !  "  she  said ;  *'  but  what  am  1  to  do 
with  it  ?  " 

"  Start  a  herbarium.  You  ought  to  have  plenty  of  time  ; 
if  not,  get  up  an  hour  earlier.  You  have  a  fine  chance  here 
of  getting  the  Alpine  species.  I  have  got  some  fresh  boards 
and  drying-paper  down  from  Inverness  ;  and  I  meant  to  lend 
you  my  hand-press ;  but  then  I  thought  I  might  want  it 
myself  for  some  other  purpose ;  and  as  Mrs.  Bell  was  glad  to 
have  the  chance  of  presenting  you  with  one,  I  said  she  might ; 
it  will  down  from  Inverness  to-morrow." 

"  But  I  cannot  accept  so  much  kindness — "  she  was 
about  to  protest,  when  he  interrupted  her. 

"You  must,"  he  said  simply.  "When  people  are  in- 
clined to  be  civil  and  kind  to  you,  you  have  no  right  to 
gnub  them."  . 


208  YOLANDE. 

Suddenly  she  stopped  short  and  faced  him.  There  was 
a  kind  of  mischief  in  her  eyes. 

"Will  you  have  the  same  answer,"  she  asked,  slowly, 
and  with  her  eyes  fixed  on  him,  "  when  Mrs.  Bell  presents 
to  you  Monaglen  ?  " 

Despite  himself  a  flush  came  over  the  pale,  handsome 
features. 

"  That  is  absurd,"  said  he  quickly.  "  That  is  impossible. 
I  know  the  Master  jokes  about  it.  If  Mrs.  Bell  has  any 
wild  dreams  of  the  kind — " 

"  If  slie  has,"  Yolande  said,  gravely,  "  if  she  wishes  to 
be  civil  and  kind,  you  have  no  right  to  snub  her." 

"  You  have  caught  me,  I  confess  it,"  he  said,  with  a 
good-natured  laugh,  as  they  resumed  their  walk  along  the 
wide  strnth.  "  But  let  us  get  back  to  the  sphere  of  prac- 
tical politics." 

He  then  proceeded  to  give  her  instructions  about  the 
formation  of  a  herbarium ;  and  in  this  desultory  conversa- 
tion she  managed  very  plainly  to  intimate  to  him  that  she 
would  not  have  permitted  him  to  take  so  much  trouble  had 
this  new  pursuit  of  hers  been  a  mere  holiday  amusement. 
No ;  she  hoped  to  make  something  more  serious  of  it ;  and 
would  it  not  be  an  admirable  occupation  for  her  when  she 
finally  came  to  live  in  these  wilds,  where  occupations  were 
not  abundant?  And  he  (with  his  mind  distraught  by  all 
sorts  of  anxieties)  had  to  listen  to  her  placidly  talking 
about  her  future  life  there,  as  if  that  were  to  be  all  very 
plain  sailing  indeed.  She  knew  of  no  trouble;  and  she 
was  not  the  one  to  anticipate  trouble.  Her  chief  regret  at 
present  was  that  her  botanizing  (at  least  so  far  as  the  coi- 
i  lection  of  plants  was  concerned)  would  cease  in  the  winter  !  " 

"  But  you  cannot  live  up  here  in  the  winter  !  "  he  ex- 
claimed. 

"Why  not?" 

"  You  would  be  snowed  up." 

"  Could  anything  be  more  delightful  than  that  ?  "  she 
said.  "  Oh,  I  see  it  all  before  me — like  a  Christmas  picture. 
Big  red  fires  in  the  rooms ;  outside,  the  sunlight  on  the 
snow,  the  air  cold  and  clear,  and  papa  going  away  over  the 
hard,  sparkling  hills  to  shoot  the  ptarmigan  and  the  white 
hares.  Don't  you  know,  then,  that  papa  will  take  Allt- 
nam-Ba  for  all  the  year  round  when  I  come  to  live  here  ? 
And  if  Duncan,  the  keeper,  can  live  very  well  in  the  bothy, 


yOLANDE.  20S 

why  not  we  in  the  lodge !  Oh,  I  assure  you  it  will  be 
ravishing." 

"  No,  no,  no  ;  you  could  not  attempt  such  a  thing,"  lie 
said.  "  Why  the  strath  might  be  quite  impassable  with 
the  snow.  You  might  be  cut  off  from  the  rest  of  the  world 
for  a  fortnight  or  three  weeks.     You  would  starve." 

"Perhaps,  then,  you  never  heard  of  tinned  meats?  "  she 
said,  with  an  air  of  superiority. 

"  No,  no ;  the  people  about  here  don't  do  like  that.  Of 
course  in  the  winter  you  would  naturally  go  in  to  Inverness, 
or  go  south  to  Edinburgh,  or  perhaps  have  a  house  in  Lon- 
don." 

"  Oh  no,  that  is  what  my  papa  would  never,  never  per- 
mit— anything  but  London." 

"  Well,  then,  Liverness  is  a  pleasant  and  cheerful  town. 
And  I  must  say  this  for  the  Master,  that  he  is  not  at  all 
likely  to  prove  an  absentee  landlord,  when  his  turn  comes. 
He  is  quite  as  diligent  as  his  father  in  looking  after  tlie 
estate;  there  won't  be  any  reversal  of  policy  when  he  suc- 
ceeds, as  sometimes  happens." 

"  Inverness  ?  "  said  she,  wistfully.  "  Yes  ;  perhaps  In- 
A'^erness — perhaps  here — that  is  what  my  papa  would  prefer  ; 
but  London — ah,  no !  And  sometimes  I  think  he  is  so 
sadly  mistaken  about  me — it  is  his  great  affection,  I  know 
— but  he  thinks  if  I  were  in  London  I  would  hear  too  much 
of  the  attacks  they  make  on  him,  and  I  might  read  the 
stupidities  they  put  into  the  newspapers  about  him.  He  is 
so  afraid  of  my  being  annoyed — oh,  I  know,  for  himself  he 
does  not  care — it  is  all  me,  me — and  the  trouble  he  will 
take  to  watch  against  small  annoyances  that  might  hap])en 
to  me,  it  is  terrible  and  pitiable,  only  it  is  so  kind.  Why 
should  I  not  go  to  the  House  of  Commons  ?  Do  they  think 
I  care  about  their  stupidities  ?  I  know  they  are  angry  be- 
cause they  have  one  man  among  them  who  will  not  be  the 
slave  of  any  party — who  will  not  be  a — a  cipher,  is  it  ? — in 
a  crowd — an  atom  in  a  majority — no,  but  who  wishes  to 
speak  what  he  thinks  is  true." 

"  Oh,  but,  Yolande,"  said  he  (venturing  thus  to  address 
her  for  the  first  time),  "  I  want  you  to  tell  me ;  do  you  ever 
feel  annoyed  and  vexed  when  you  see  any  attack  on  your 
father  ?  " 

She  hesitated  ;  she  did  not  like  to  confess. 

"  It  is  a  natural  thing  to  be  annoyed  when  you  see 
stupidities  of  malice  aud  spitefulness,"  she  said,  at  length — 


210  YOLANDE. 

with  the  fair  freckled  face  a  shade  warmer  in  color  than 
usual. 

"  For  I  can  give  you  a  panacea  for  all  such  wounds,  or 
rather  an  absolute  shield  against  them." 

"  Can  you — can  you  ?  "  she  said,  eagerly. 

**0h,  yes,''  he  said,  in  that  carelessly  indifferent  way  of 
his.  "  When  you  see  anybody  pitching  into  your  father, 
in  the  House  or  in  a  newspaper,  all  you  have  to  do  is  to  re- 
call a  certain  sonnet  of  Milton's.  You  should  bear  it  about 
with  you  in  your  mind ;  there  is  a  fine  wholesome  tone  of 
contempt  in  it;  and  neither  persons  in  public  life  nor  their 
relatives  should  have  too  great  a  respect  for  other  people's 
opinions.  It  is  not  wholesome.  It  begets  sensitiveness. 
You  should  always  consider  that  your  opponents  are — 
are—'* 

"  Ames  de  boue !  "  said  Yolande,  fiercely.  "  That  is 
what  I  think  when  I  see  what  they  say  of  my  papa." 

"  But  I  don't  think  you  would  feel  so  much  indignation 
as  that  if  you  would  carry  about  this  sonnet  with  you  in 
your  memory  : — 

*"  I  did  but  prompt  the  age  to  quit  their  clogs 
By  the  known  rules  of  ancient  liberty, 
When  straight  a  barbarous  noise  environs  me 
Of  owls,  and  cuckoos,  asses,  apes,  and  dogs  ; 
As  when  those  hinds  that  were  transformed  to  frogs 
Railed  at  Latona's  twin-born  progeny, 
Wliich  after  held  the  Sun  and  Moon  in  fee. 
But  this  is  got  by  casting  pearls  to  hogs. 
That  bawl  for  freedom  in  their  senseless  mood, 
And  still  revolt  when  Truth  would  set  them  free. 
License  they  mean  when  they  cry  Liberty  ; 
For  who  loves  that  must  first  be  wise  and  good  ; 
But  from  that  mark  how  far  they  rove  we  see, 
For  all  this  waste  of  wealth  and  loss  of  blood." 

There  is  a  good,  honest,  satisfactory,  wholesome  con- 
tempt in  it." 

"Yes,  yes;  will  you  write  it  down  for  me?"  said  she, 
quickly  and  gratefully.  "  Will  you  write  it  down  for  me 
when  we  get  to  the  lodge  ?  " 

*'  If  you  like." 

When  they  drew  near  to  the  lodge,  however,  they  found 
that  something  very  unusual  was  going  forward.  The 
whole  of  the  women-servants,  to  begin  with,  were  outside, 
and  gazing  intently  in  the  direction  of  a  hillside  just  above 
the  conlluence  of  the  Dun  Water  and  the  Crooked  Water, 


YOLANDE.  211 

while  the  pretty  Highland  cook  was  asserting  something  or 
other  in  strenuous  terms.  The  moment  they  saw  Yolande 
those  young  people  fled  into  the  house,  like  so  many  scun-y- 
ing  rabbits  ;  but  Sandy,  the  groom,  being  over  near  the 
kennel,  did  not  hear,  and  remained  perched  up  on  the  fence, 
using  an  opera-glass  which  he  had  filched  from  the  dining 
room  mantelpiece.  Yolande  went  over  to  him  (as  she  had 
to  kennel  up  the  dogs  in  any  case),  and  said  to  him, — 
"  What  is  the  matter,  Sandy  ?  " 

He  very  nearly  dropped  with  friglit,  but  instantly  recov- 
ered himself,  and  said,  with  great  excitement : — 

"  I  think  they  are  bringing  home  a  stag,  madam  ;  I  am 
sure  that  is  it.  I  was  seeing  the  powny  taken  down  to 
cross  the  burn  ;  and  it  was  not  the  panniers  that  was  on 
him  ;  and  there  is  the  chentlemen  standing  by  the  bridge, 
looking." 

Tliere  certainly  was  a  small  group  of  figures  standing 
on  the  further  side  of  that  distant  bridge — a  slim  little  struct- 
ure slung  on  wires,  and  so  given  to  oscillation  that  only  one 
person  could  cross  at  a  time.  This  performance,  indeed, 
was  now  carefully  going  on  ;  but  what  had  become  of  the 
pony?  Presently  they  saw  something  appear  on  the  top  of 
the  bank  on  this  side  of  the  stream. 

"  It  is  a  stag  undoubtedly,  Yolande,"  Jack  Melville  said, 
(he  had  got  hold  of  the  opera-glass)  "  and  1  should  say  a 
good  one.  Now  how  could  that  have  come  about?  Never 
mind,  I  dare  say  your  father  will  be  delighted  enough,  and 
I  should  say  Duncan  will  tune  up  his  pipes  this  evening." 

Yolande  looked  through  the  glass,  and  was  very  much 
excited  to  see  that  small  pony  coming  home  with  its  heavy 
burden  ;  but  the  gentlemen  were  now  invisible,  having 
passed  behind  a  hillock.  And  so  she  sped  into  the  house, 
fearful  that  the  curiosity  of  the  women-servants  might 
have  let  affairs  get  behindhand,  and  determined  that  every- 
thing should  be  in  readiness  for  the  home-coming  sports- 
men. 

Melville  was  left  outside ;  and  as  he  regarded  now  the 
gillie  leading  the  pony,  and  t^ow  the  party  of  people  who 
were  visible  coming  over  the  hillock,  it  w^as  not  altogether 
of  the  dead  stag  that  he  was  thinkhig.  In  this  matter  of  the 
Master  of  Lynn  he  had  only  performed  his  thankless  duty 
as  messenger,  as  it  were  ;  still,  it  was  not  pleasant  to  have 
to  bring  back  bad  news.  Sometimes  he  wished  he  had  had 
aothinijj  whatever  to  do  with  the  whole  complication ;  then. 


212  YOLANDE. 

again,  he  reminded  himself  that  that  secret  had  been  coii- 
fided  to  him  by  John  Shortlands  unsolicited  ;  and  that  he, 
Melville,  had  subsequently  done  what  he  honestly  thought 
best.  And  then  he  turned  to  think  about  Yolande.  Would 
he  grudge  anything  he  could  do  for  that  beautiful  child- 
nature — to  keep  it  clear  and  bright  and  peaceful  ?  No,  he 
could  not.  And  then  he  thought,  with  something  of  a  sigh, 
that  those  who  were  the  lucky  ones  in  this  world  did  not 
seem  to  place  much  value  on  the  prizes  that  lay  witliin  their 
hands'  reach. 

The  corpulent  John  Shortlands,  as  he  now  came  proudly 
along,  puffed  and  blowing  and  breathless,  clearly  showed  by 
his  radiant  face  who  had  shot  the  stag ;  and  at  once  he 
plunged  into  an  account  of  the  affair  for  the  benefit  of  Jack 
Melville.  He  roundly  averred  that  no  such  "  fluke  "  was 
known  in  English  history.  They  were  not  out  after  any 
stag.  No  stag  had  any  right  to  be  there.  They  had  passed 
up  that  way  in  the  morning  with  the  dogs.  Nor  could  this 
have  been  the  wounded  stag  that  the  shepherds  had  seen 
drinking  out  of  the  Allt-corrie-an-eich  some  four  days  ago. 
No  ;  this  must  have  been  some  wandering  stag  that  had  got 
startled  out  of  some  adjacent  forest,  and  had  taken  refuge 
in  the  glen  just  as  the  shooting  party  were  coming  back 
from  the  far  tops.  .Duncan  had  proposed  to  have  a  try  for 
a  few  black-game  when  they  came  down  to  these  woods ; 
and  so,  by  great  good  luck,  John  Shortlands  had  put  a  No. 
4  cartridge  in  his  left  barrel,  just  in  case  an  old  blackcock 
should  get  up  wild.  Then  he  was  standing  at  his  post,  when 
suddenly  he  heard  a  pattering;  a  brown  animal  appeared 
with  head  high  and  horns  thrown  back  ;  the  next  instant  it 
passed  him,  not  more  than  fifteen  yards  off,  and  he  blazed 
at  it — in  his  nervousness  with  the  right  barrel ;  then  he  saw 
it  stumble,  only  for  a  second  ;  then  on  it  went  again,  he  after 
it,  down  to  the  burn,  which  fortunately  was  rushing,  fed 
with  the  last  night's  rain ;  in  the  bed  of  the  stream  it  stum- 
bled again  and  fell,  and  as  it  struggled  out  and  up  the  op- 
posite bank,  there  being  now  nothing  but  the  breadth  of  the 
burn  between  him  and  it,  he  took  more  deliberate  aim,  fired, 
and  the  stag  fell  back  stone-dead,  its  head  and  horns,  in- 
deed, remaining  partly  in  the  water. 

Then  Mr.  Winterbourne,  when  he  came  along,  seemed 
quite  as  honestly  pleased  at  this  unexpected  achievement  as 
if  the  stag  had  fallen  to  his  own  gun  ;  while  as  for  Duncan, 
the  grim  satisfaction  on  his  face  was  sufficient  testimony. 


YOLANDE,  213 

"This  is  something  like  a  good  day's  work,"  said  he. 
*'  And  I  was  bringing  down  the  stag  for  Miss  Winterbourne 
to  see  it  before  the  dark,  and  now  Peter  will  take  back  the 
powny  for  the  panniers." 

But  Jack  Melville  took  occasion  to  say  to  him  aside, — 

"  Duncan,  Miss  Winterbourne  will  look  at  the  head  and 
horns  when  you  have  had  time  to  take  a  sponge  or  a  wet 
cloth  to  them,  don't  you  understand  ? — later  on  in  the  even- 
ing, perhaps." 

"  Very  well,  sir.  And  I  suppose  the  gentleman  will  be 
sending  in  the  head  to  Mr.  Macleay's  to-morrow?  It  is  not 
a  royal,  but  it  is  a  very  good  head  whatever." 

"  How  many  points — ten  ?  " 

"  Yes,  sir.     It  is  a  very  good  head  whatever." 

Yolande  had  so  effectively  hurried  up  everything  inside 
the  lodge  that  when  the  gentlemen  appeared  for  dinner  it 
was  they  who  were  late,  and  not  the  dinner.  And  of  course 
she  was  greatly  delighted  also,  and  all  the  story  of  the  cap- 
ture of  the  stag  had  to  be  told  over  again,  to  the  minutest 
points.  And  again  there  was  a  fierce  discussion  as  to  who 
should  have  the  head  and  horns,  John  Shortlands  being 
finally  compelled  to  receive  the  trophy  which  naturally  be- 
longed to  him.     Then  a  wild  skirl  outside  in  the  dark. 

"  What  is  that,  now  ?  "  said  John  Shortlands. 

"  That."  said  Yolande,  complacently — for  she  had  got 
to  know  something  of  these  matters — "  is  the  pibroch  of 
Donald  Dhu." 

*'  That  is  the  pibroch  of  Donald  Black,  I  suppose,"  said 
John  Shortlands,  peevishly.  "  What  the  mischief  have  I  to 
do  with  Donald  Black  ?  I  want  the  Pibroch  of  John  Short- 
lands.  What  is  the  use  of  killing  a  stag  if  you  have  to  have 
somebody  else's  pibroch  played?  If  ever  I  rent  a  deer  for- 
est in  the  Highlands,  I  will  have  my  own  pibroch  made  for 
me,  if  I  pay  twenty  pounds  for  it." 

Indeed,  as  it  turned  out,  there  was  so  much  joy  diffused 
throughout  this  household  by  the  slay  nig  of  the  stag  that 
Jack  Melville,  communing  with  himself,  decided  that  his  ill 
news  might  keep.  He  would  take  some  other  opportunity 
of  telling  Shortlands  the  result  of  his  mission.  Why  destroy 
his  very  obvious  satisfaction  ?  It  was  a  new  experience  for 
him  ;  he  had  never  shot  a  stag  before.  The  cup  of  his  hap- 
piness was  full  to  the  brim,  and  nobody  grudged  it  him,  for 
he  was  a  sound-hearted  sort  of  man. 

One  rather  awkward  incident  arose,  however,  out  of  this 


J14  \  OLANDE. 

stngr  episode.     In  the  midst  of  their  dinner  talk  Yolande 
suddenly  said, — 

"Papa,  ought  I  to  stnd  a  haunch  of  venison  to  Lynn 
Towers?  It  seems  so  strange  to  have  neighbors,  and  not 
any  compliment  one  way  or  the  other.  Should  I  send  a 
haunch  of  venison  to  Lord  Lynn  ?  " 

Her  father  seemed  somewhat  disturbed. 

"  No,  no,  Yolande ;  it  would  seem  absurd  to  send  a 
haunch  of  venison  to  a  man  who  has  a  deer  forest  of  his 
own." 

"  But  it  is  let." 

"  Yes,  I  know ;  but  no  doubt  the  tenant  will  send  in  a 
haunch  to  the  Towers  if  there  is  any  occasion." 

"But  I  know  he  does  not,  for  Archie  said  so.  Mr.  Mel- 
ville," she  said,  shifting  the  ground  of  her  appeal,  "  would 
it  not  be  a  nice  compliment  to  pay  to  a  neighbor.  Is  it  not 
customary?" 

His  eyes  had  been  fixed  on  the  table ;  he  did  not  raise 
them. 

"  I — I  don't  think  I  would,"  said  he,  with  some  little 
embarrassment.  "You  don't  know  what  fancies  old  people 
might  take.  And  you  will  want  the  venison  for  yourselves. 
Besides,  Mr.  Shortlands  shot  the  stag;  you  should  let  him 
have  a  haunch  to  send  to  his  friends  in  the  south." 

"  Oh,  yes,  yes,  yes,  certainly,"  she  cried,  clapping  her 
hands.  "  Why  did  I  not  think  of  it?  That  will  be  much 
better." 

At  another  time  John  Shortlands  might  have  protested, 
but  something  in  Melville's  manner  struck  him,  and  he  did 
not  contend  that  the  haunch  of  venison  should  be  sent  to 
Lynn  Towers. 

After  dinner  they  went  out  into  the  dark,  and,  guided 
by  the  sound  of  the  pipes,  made  their  way  to  the  spacious 
coach-house,  which  they  found  had  been  cleared  out,  and 
in  which  they  found  two  of  the  gillies  and  two  of  the  shep- 
herds— great,  huge,  red-bearded,  brawny  men — dancing  a 
four-some  reel,  while  Duncan  was  playing  as  if  he  meant  to 
send  the  roof  off.  The  head  and  horns  of  the  deer  were 
hung  up  on  one  of  the  pillars  of  the  loose  box.  The  place 
was  ruddily  lit  up  by  two  lamps,  as  well  as  a  few  candles ; 
there  was  a  small  keg  of  whiskey  in  a  dim  corner.  And 
Yolande  thought  that  the  Highland  girls  might  just  as  well 
come  over  from  the  lodge  (the  English  Jane  was  of  no  use), 
and  very  soon  the  dancing  party  was  made  much  more 


YOLANDE.  215 

picturesque.  But  where  was  the  Master  of  Lynn,  with  the 
torchlight  dance  he  had  promised  them  on  the  occasion  of 
their  killing  their  first  stag  ? 

When  Jack  Melville  was  going  away  that  night  he  was 
surprised  to  find  the  dog-cart  outside,  Sandy  in  his  livery, 
tihe  lamps  lit,  and  warm  rugs  on  the  front  seat. 

*'  This  is  not  for  me  ?  "  he  said.  ' 

"  It  is,  inde'ed,"  said  Yolande. 

"  Oh,  but  I  must  ask  you  to  send  it  back.  It  is  nothing 
for  me  to  walk  to  Gress.  You  have  enough  work  for  your 
horses  just  now." 

"  The  night  is  dark,"  she  said,  '*  and  I  wish  you  to 
drive  ;  you  will  have  the  light  of  the  lamps." 

"  Why  should  I  drive — to  Gress !  "  he  said. 

"  But  I  wish  it,"  she  answered. 

And  that  was  enough. 


CHAPTER  XXVII. 

DANGER. 


It  might  have  appeared  to  any  careful  observer,  who 
also  knew  all  the  circumstances  of  the  case,  that  what  was 
now  happening,  or  about  to  happen,  away  up  in  those 
remote  solitudes,  was  obvious  enough  ;  but  certainly  no 
suspicion  of  any  such  possibilities  had  so  far  entered  the 
minds  of  the  parties  chiefly  interested.  Yolande  regarded 
her  future  as  already  quite  settled.  That  was  over  and 
done  with.  Her  French  training  had  taught  her  to  acqui- 
esce in  any  arrangement  that  seemed  most  suitable  to  those 
who  hitherto  had  guided  her  destiny,  and  as  she  had  never 
experienced  any  affection  stronger  than  her  love  for  her 
fatlier,  so  she  did  not  perceive  the  absence  of  any  such  pas- 
sion. To  English  eyes  her  marriage  might  seem  a  mariage 
de  complaisance,  as  Colonel  Graham  had  styled  it ;  in  her 
eyes  it  seemed  everything  that  was  natural  and  proper  and 
fitting,  and  she  was  quite  content.  It  never  occurred  to  her 
to  analyze  the  singular  satisfaction  she  always  felt  in  the 
society  of  this  new  friend — the  sense  of  safety,  trust, 
guidance,  and  reliance   with  which  he  inspired  her.     He 


»216  VOLANDE. 

claimed  a  sort  of  schoolmasterish   authority  over  her,  and 
she  yielded ;    sometimes,   it  is  true,  re-assertiiig  her  inde- 
pendence by  the  use  of  feminine  wiles  and  ^coquetries  which 
were  as  natural  as  the  scamperings  of  a  young  rabbit  or  the 
rustling  of  the  leaves  of  a  tree,  but  more  ordinarily  submit- 
ting to  his  dictation  and  government  with  a  placid    and 
amused  sense  of  security ;  while  as  for  him,  had  he  dreamed 
that   he   was  stealing   away  the   affections  of   his  friend's 
chosen  bride  he  would   have   fled   from    the  spot  on    the 
instant,  with  shame  and  ignominy  haunting  him.     But  how 
could  such  an  idea  present  itself  to  him?     He  looked  on 
her  as  one  already  set  apart.      She  belonged  to  the  Master 
of  Lynn.     As  his  friend's  future  wife    he  hoped    she  also 
would  be  his  friend.      He  admired  her  bright  spirits,  her 
cheerfulness,  and  frankness ;  but  it  was  this  very  frankness 
(added  to   his  own   blunt  disregard    of  conventionalities) 
that  was  deceiving  them  both.     Five  minutes  after  she  had 
asked  him  to  call  her  Yolande  she  was  talking  to  him  of 
her  future  home  and  her  married  life,  and  she  was  as  ready 
to  take  his  advice  in  that  direction  as  Ir  the  direction  of 
drying  plants  and  setting  up  a  herbarium.      And  if  some- 
times she  r^^ersed  their  relations,    and  took  to  lecturing 
him  on  his  unwise  ways  at  Gress — his  carelessness  about 
his  meals,  and  so  forth — why,  then  he  humored  her,  and 
considered    her   remonstrances  as    only    an    exhibition    of 
friendly  interest,  perhaps  with  a  trifle  of  gratitude  added, 
for  he  knew  very  well  that  he  had  spent  a  good  deal  of 
time  in  trying  to  be  of  service  to  her. 

Then,  at  this  particular  moment,  everything  seemed  to 
conspire  toward  that  end  which  neither  of  them  foresaw. 
Yolande  found  the  domestic  arrangements  at  Allt-nam-Ba 
flow  very  easily  and  smoothly,  so  that  practically  she  had 
the  bulk  of  the  day  at  her  own  disposal,  and  Gress  was  a 
convenient  halting-place  when  she  went  for  a  drive,  even 
when  she  had  no  particular  message  or  object  in  view. 
But  very  frequently  she  had  a  distinct  object  in  view,  which 
led  to  her  sending  on  the  dog-cart  to  Foyers  and  awaiting 
its  return.  On  the  very  morning,  for  example,  after  Jack 
Melville  had  dined  with  them,  she  got  the  following  letter, 
which  had  been  brought  out  from  Whitebridge  late  the 
night  before.  The  letter  was  from  Mrs.  Bell,  and  the  hand- 
writing was  singularly  clear  and  precise  for  a  woman  now 
over  sixty,  wlio  had  for  the  most  part  educated  herself. 


YOLANDE.  217 

"  Gress,  Wednesday ^ 
"My  dear  young  Lady, — Excuse  my  forwardness  in 
sending  you  a  letter  ;  but  I  thought  you  would  like  to  hear 
the  good  news.  The  lawyers  write  to  me  from  Edinburgh 
that  young  Mr.  Eraser  is  now  come  of  age,  and  that  the 
trustees  are  now  willing  to  sell  the  Monaglen  estate,  if  they 
can  get  enough  for  it.  This  is  what  I  have  looked  forward 
to  for  many's  the  day;  but  we  must  not  be  too  eager  like : 
the  lawyers  are  such  keen  bodies,  and  I  have  not  saved  up 
my  scraps  to  feed  their  pigs.  I  think  I  would  like  to  go  to 
Edinburgh  myself,  if  it  was  not  that  they  lasses  would  let 
everything  go  to  rack  and  ruin,  and  would  have  no  sense 
to  study  Mr.  Melville's  ways ;  the  like  of  them  for  glaiket 
hussies  is  not  in  the  land.  But  I  would  greatly  wish  to 
see  you,  dear  young  lady,  if  you  will  honor  me  so  far,  before 
I  go  to  Edinburgh,  for  I  can  not  speak  to  Mr.  Melville 
about  it,  and  I  do  not  wish  to  go  among  they  lawyers  with 
only  my  own  head  to  guide  me.    I  am,  your  humble  servant, 

*'  Christina  Bell." 

Yolande  laughed  when  she  got  this  letter,  partly  with 
pure  joy  over  the  great  good  fortune  which  was  likely 
to  befal  her  friend,  and  partly  at  the  humor  of  the  notion 
that  she  should  be  consulted  about  the  conveyancing  of  an 
estate.  However,  she  lost  no  time  in  making  her  prepara- 
tions for  driving  down  to  Gress,  and  indeed  the  dog-cart, 
had  already  been  ordered  to  take  some  game  into  Foyers, 
and  also  the  stag's  head  destined  for  Mr.  Macleay.  Yolande 
saw  that  everything  was  right,  got  a  brace  of  grouse  and 
a  hare  for  Mrs.  Bell,  and  then  set  out  to  drive  away 
down  the  strath,  on  this  changing,  gloomy,  and  windy  day 
that  had  streaked  the  troubled  surface  of  the  loch  with 
long  white  lines  of  foam. 

She  found  Mrs.  Bell  much  excited,  but  still  scarcely 
daring  to  talk  above  a  w^hisper,  while  from  time  to  time  she 
glanced  at  the  laboratory,  as  if  she  feared  Mr.  Melville  would 
come  out  to  surprise  them  in  the  discussion  of  this  dark 
secret. 

*' He  is  not  in  the   schoolhouse,  then?"  Yolande  said. 

"  Not  the  now.  Ye  see,  the  young  lad,  Dalrymple,  that 
he  got  from  Glasgow  College  is  doing  very  well  now,  and 
Mr.  Melville  is  getting  to  be  more  and  more  his  own  maister. 
He  canna  aye  be  looking  after  they  bairns  ;  and  if  we  could 
get  Monaglen  for  him, who  could  expect  him  to  bother  his  head 


:il8  YOLANDE, 

nboot  a  school  ?  He's  done  enough  for  the  folk  about  liere  ; 
he'll  have  to  do  something  for  himself  now — ah,  Miss  Win 
tei  bourne,  that  will  be  a  prood  day  for  me,  when  I  hand  him 
over  the  papers." 

She  spoke    as  if  it  were  a  conspiracy  between  these  two. 

"  But  it  will  be  a  sair,  sair  job  to  get  him  to  take  the 
place,"  she  continued,  reflectively,  "  for  the  man  has 
little  common-sense ;  but  he  has  pride  enough  to  move 
mountains." 

"  Not  common-sense  ?  "  said  Yolande,  with  her  eyes 
showing  her  wonder.  "  What  has  he  then  ?  I  think  it  is  al- 
ways common-sense  with  him.  When  you  are  talking  with 
him,  and  not  very  sure  what  to  do,  whatever  he  says  is  al- 
ways clear,  straight,  and  right ;  you  have  no  diflSculty  ;  he 
sees  just  the  right  way  before  you.  But  how  am  I  to  help 
you  Mrs.  Bell?" 

"  Well,  I  dinna  ken,  exactly,  but  the  idea  of  an  auld 
w^oman  like  me  going  away  to  Edinburgh  among  a'  they 
lawyers  is  just  dredfu'.  It's  like  Daniel  being  put  into  the 
den  of  lions." 

"  Well,  you  know,  Mrs.  Bell,"  Yolande  said,  cheerfully, 
"  no  harm  was  done  to  him.  The  lions  did  not  touch  a 
hair  of  his  head." 

"  Ay  I  ken  that,"  said  Mrs.  Bell  grimly  ;  "  but  they  dinna 
work  miracles  nowadays.'' 

"  Surely  you  must  have  your  own  lawyers?"  the  girl 
asked. 

"  I  have  that." 

"You  can  trust  them,  then ;  with  them  you  are  safe 
enough,  surely  ?  " 

"  Well,  this  is  the  way  on't,"  said  Mrs.  Bell,  with  decis- 
ion. "  It  is  not  in  the  nature  o'  things  for  a  human  being  to 
trust  a  lawyer — it's  no  possible.  But  the  needcessity  o  '  the 
case  drives  ye  into  their  hands,  and  ye  can  only  trust  in  Prov- 
idence that  they  will  make  the  other  side  suffer,  and  no  you. 
They're  bound  to  make  their  money  out  o'  somebody.  I'm 
no  saying,  ye  ken,  but  that  the  lawyers  that  have  been 
doing  business  for  ye  for  a  nummer  o'  years  might  no  be  a 
bit  fairer;  for  it's  their  interest  to  carry  ye  on,  and  be  freens 
wi'  ye,  but,  dear  me,  when  I  think  of  going  away  to  Edinburgh 
a'  by  mysel',  among  that  pack  o'  wolves,  it's  enough  to  keep 
one  frae  sleeping  at  nights." 

"  But  every  one  says  you  are  so  shrewd,  Mrs.  Bell ! " 

"  Do  they  ?  "  she  responded,  with  a  pleased  laugh.     "Just 


YOLANDE.  219 

because  I  kenned  what  they  men  were  after?  It  needed  no 
much  judgment  to  make  that  out.  Maybe  if  I  had  been  a 
young  lass  they  might  ha'  persuaded  me ;  but  when  1  was  a 
young  lass  with  scarcely  a  bawbee  in  my  stocking,  there  was 
never  a  word  on't ;  and  when  they  did  begin  to  come  about 
when  I  was  an  auld  woman,  I  kenned  fine  it  was  my  bank-book 
they  were  after.  It  didna  take  much  judgment  to  make 
that  out — the  idiwuts !  Ay,  and  my  lord,  too — set  him 
up  wi'  his  eight  months  in  London  by  himsel,'  and  me  find- 
ing the  money  to  put  saut  in  his  kail.  Well,  here  am  I 
bletherin*  about  a  lot  o'  havers  like  that,  as  if  I  was  a  young 
lass  out  at  the  herdin,'  when  I  wanted  to  tell  ye,  my  dear 
young  leddy,  just  how  everything  was.  Ye  see  what 
I  was  left  was,  first  of  a,'  the  whole  of  tbe  place  in 
Leicestershire,  and  a  beautifu'  country  side  it  is  ;  and  a  braw 
big  house  too,  though  it  was  not  likely  I  was  going  to  live 
there,  in  a  state  not  becoming  to  one  like  me,  and  me 
wanting  to  be  among  my  own  people  besides.  Then  there 
was  some  money  in  consols,  which  is  as  safe  as  the  Bank,  as 
the  saying  is;  and  some  shares  in  a  mine  in  Cornwall.  The 
shares  I  was  advised  to  sell,  and  I  did  that ;  for  I  am  not 
one  that  cares  for  risk  ;  but  when  I  began  to  get  possession 
of  my  yearly  money,  and  when  I  found  what  I  could  save 
wa«  mounting  up,  and  mounting  up,  in  jist  an  extraordinary 
way,  1  put  some  o'  that  into  French  stock,  as  I  thought  I 
might  take  a  bit  liberty  wi'  what  was  my  own  making  in  a 
measure.  And  now,  though  it's  no  for  me  to  boast,  it's  a 
braw  sum — a  braw  sum  ;  and  atweel.  I'm  thinking  that  a  fine 
rich  English  estate,  even  by  itsel'  should  be  able  to  buy  up  a 
wheen  bare  hillsides  in  Inverness-shire,  even  if  we  have  to 
take  the  sheep  ower  at  a  valuation — ay,  and  leave  a  pretty 
penny  besides.  I  declare  when  I  think  o'  what  might  ha' 
happened,  I  feel  I  should  go  down  on  my  knees  and  thank 
the  Almighty  for  putting  enough  sense  in  my  head  to  see 
what  they  men  were  after?  or  by  this  time  there  might  not 
be  stick  or  stone  to  show  for  it — a'  squandered  away  in  horse- 
racing  or  the  like — and  Mr.  Melville,  the  son  of  my  auld 
master,  the  best  master  that  ever  lived,  going  about  from 
one  great  man's  house  to  another,  teachmg  the  young  gen- 
tlemen, and  him  as  fit  as  any  o'  them  to  have  house  and  ha' 
of  his  ain — " 

Slie  stopped  suddenly,  for  both  of  them  now  saw  through 
the  parlor  window  Jack  Melville  himself  come  out  of  his 
laboratory,  carelessly  whistling.     Doubtless  he  did  not  know 


220  YOLANDE. 

that  Yolande  was  in  the  house,  else  he  would  have  walked 
thither ;  and  probably  he  had  only  come  out  to  get  a  breath 
of  fresh  air,  for  he  went  to  a  rocking-chair  close  by  the 
garden,  and  threw  himself  into  it,  lying  back  with  his 
hands  behind  his  head.  Indeed,  he  looked  the  very  incar- 
nation  of  indolence,  this  big-boned,  massive-shouldered 
young  man,  who  lay  there  idly  scanning  the  skies. 

"  I  am  going  out  to  scold  him  for  laziness,"  said  Yolande. 

"  Please  no,  my  dear  young  leddy,"  Mrs.  Bell  said, 
laying  her  hand  gently  on  the  girl's  arm.  *'  It  is  now  he  is 
working.'* 

I  *'  Working  !  Does  it  look  like  it  ?  Besides,  I  am  not 
so  afraid  of  him  as  you  are,  Mrs.  Ball.     Oh  yes,  let  me  go." 

So  she  went'  out  and  through  the  little  lobby  into  the 
garden,  coming  upon  him  indeed,  quite  unawares. 

"  Mrs.  Bell  says  I  must  not  speak  to  you,"  she  said. 
"  She  says  you  are  working,  and  must  not  be  disturbed.  Is 
it  so  ?  And  what  is  the  work  ?  Is  it  travelling  at  68,000 
miles  an  hour?" 

"  Something  like  that,"  said  he  ;  and  he  forgot  to  rise, 
while  she  remained  standing.  Then  he  glanced  round  the 
threatening  sky  again.  "  You  were  brave  to  venture  out  on 
a  morning  like  this." 

"  Why  ?     What  is  there  ?', 

"  Looks  like  the  beginning  of  a  storm,"  said  he.  "  Here 
we  are  fairly  sheltered,  but  there  are  some  squalls  of  wind 
going  across,  I  hope  you  won't  all  be  blown  down  the  strath 
into  the  loch  to-night.** 

"  Ah,  but  I  do  not  believe  any  longer  in  weather  proph- 
ecies," she  said,  tauntingly.  "  No,  I  do  not  think  any  one 
has  any  knowledge  of  it — at  Allt-nam-Ba,  at  all  events.  It  is 
never  five  minutes  the  same.  One  moment  you  are  in  the 
clouds,  the  next  in  sunlight.  Duncan  looks  up  the  hill  in 
the  morning,  and  is  very  serious  ;  before  they  have  got  to 
the  little  bridge  there  is  blue  sky.  It  is  all  chance.  Do  you 
think  science  can  tell  you  anything  ?  You,  now,  when  you 
bought  that  instrument  "—and  here  she  regarded  a  solar 
macliine,  the  mirrors  and  brass  mountings  of  which  were 
shining  clear  even  on  this  dull  day — "  did  you  expect  to  get 
enough  sunlight  at  Gress  for  you  to  distil  water  ?" 

A  twinkle  in  the  clear  gray  eyes  showed  that  she  had 
caught  him. 

"  There  are  mysteries  in  science  that  can  not  be  ex- 
plained to   babies,"  said  he  (and  she  thouijht  it  rather  cool 


YOLANDE.  221 

that  he  remained  sitting,  or  rather  lounging,  instead  of 
going  and  fetching  a  chair  for  her).  "Everything  isn't  as 
easy  as  snipping  out  the  name  of  a  genus  and  pasting  it  at 
the  foot  of  a  double  sheet  of  white  paper." 

"  That  is  good  of  you  to  remind  me,"  she  said,  without  in 
the  least  being  crushed.  "  One  thing  I  came  for  to-day  was 
the  L'fhncea  horealiaP 

Theri  he  instantly  jumped  to  his  feet. 

"  Certainly,"  said  he  ;  "  come  along  into  the  house.  You 
may  as  well  take  back  the  boards,  and  drying-paper,  and  so 
forth,  with  you  ;  and  I  will  show^  you  how  to  use  them  now 
There  may  be  a  few  other  things  you  should  have  out  of 
my  herbarium,  just  to  start  you,  as  it  were — not  rare  plants, 
but  plants  you  are  not  likely  to  get,  up  at  Allt-nam-Ba.  Are 
you  superstitious  ?  I  will  give  you  a  four-leaved  clover, 
if  you  like." 

"  Did  you  find  it  ?" 

"  Yes  ;  in  a  marshy  place  in  Glencoe." 

"  But  it  is  the  finder  to  whom  it  brings  luck,  as  I  have 
read,"  Yolande  said. 

*^  Oh,  is  it  so  ?"  he  answered,  carelessly.  "  I  am  not 
learned  in  such  things.  If  you  like,  you  can  have  it  ;  and 
in  the  meantime  we  will  start  you  with  your  Linoia  and 
a  few  other  things.  I  don't  suppose  the  hand-press  has  ar- 
rived yet  ;  but  mind,  you  must  not  refuse  it." 

"  Oh  no,"  said  she,  gravely  repeating  the  lesson  of  yes- 
terday. ''  When  one  wishes  to  be  civil  and  kind  to  you,  you 
have  no  night  to  snub  him." 

The  repetiton  of  the  phrase  seemed  to  remind  him  ;  he 
suddenly  stopped  short,  regarding  her  with  an  odd,  half- 
amused  look  in  his  eyes. 

"  Can  you  keep  a  secret  ?" 

"  I  hope  so." 

"  Well,  now,"  he  said,  rather  under  his  voice,  "  I  am  go- 
ing to  tell  you  a  secret,  which  on  no  account  must  you  tell 
to  Mrs.  Bell.  I  have  just  heard  on  very  good  authority  that 
Monaglen  is  about  to  come  into  the  market,  after  all.  " 

'  Oh,  indeed  !"  said,  she,  with  perfectly  innocent  eyes. 
"  Can  it  be  possible  ?" 

'■'  Don't  mention  the  thing  to  Mrs.  Bell,  for  you  know 
her  wild  sckemes  and  visions,  and  it  would  only  make  her 
unhappv." 

"Why,  then?" 

"  Because  what  she  means  to  do  (if  she  really  means  to  do 


222  YOLANDE, 

it) is  not  practicable,"  he  said,  plainly.  "  Of  course,  if  sh# 
buys  Monaglen  for  herself,  good  and  well.  She  is  welcome 
to  sit  in  the  hall  of  my  fathers.  I  daresay  she  will  do  more 
good  in  the  neighborhood  than  they  ever  thought  of  doing, 
for  she  is  an  excellent  kind  of  creature.  And  it  is  just 
possible  that,  seeing  me  about  the  place,  she  may  have 
thought  of  some  romantic  project  ;  but  when  once  I  am 
clear  away  from  Gress,  it  will  quite  naturally  and  easily  fade 
from  her  mind." 

"  But  you  are  not  going  away  !  "  she  said  ;  and  that 
sudden  sinking  of  the  heart  ought  to  have  warned  her  ;  but 
indeed  she  had  not  had  a  wide  experience  in  such  matters. 

"  Oh  yes,"  said  he,  good-naturedly.  "  How  could  this 
makeshift  last  ?  Of  course  I  must  be  off — but  not  this 
minute,  or  to-morrow.  I  have  started  a  lot  of  things  in  this 
neighborhood — with  Mrs.  Bell's  money,  mind — and  I  want 
to  see  them  going  smoothly  ;  then  I  'm  off." 

She  did  not  speak.  Her  eyes  were  distant ;  she  was 
scarcely  conscious  that  her  heart  was  so  disappointed  and 
heavy.  But  she  was  vaguely  aware  that  the  life  she  had 
been  looking  forward  to  in  these  far  solitudes  did  not  seem 
half  so  full  and  rich  now.  There  was  some  loneliness  about 
it — a  vacancy  that  the  mind  discerned,  but  did  not  know 
how  to  fill  up.  Was  it  the  gloom  of  the  day  ?  She  thought 
of  Allt-nam-Ba  in  the  winter  ;  it  had  no  longer  any  charm 
for  her.  There  was  no  mischief  in  her  brain  now,  no  pre- 
tended innocence  in  her  eyes.  Something  had  befallen — 
she  scarcely  knew  what.  And  when  she  followed  him  into 
the  house,  to  get  the  Linnma  borealis,  that  little  pathetic 
droop  of  the  mouth  was  marked. 

That  same  afternoon  as  she  was  driving  home,  and  just 
above  the  little  hill  that  goes  down  to  the  bridge  adjacent 
to  Lynn  Towers,  she  met  the  Master,  who  was  coming 
along  on  horseback.  The  drive  had  been  a  sombre  one 
somehow,  for  the  skies  were  gloomy  and  threatening.  But 
when  she  saw  him,  she  brightened  up,  and  gave  him  a  very 
pleasant  greeting. 

"  You  are  quite  a  stranger,"  said  she,  as  they  both 
stopped. 

"  We  have  had  a  good  many  things  to  attend  to  at  the 
Towers,"  he  said — as  she  thought,  rather  distantly. 

"  I  hear  them  talking  of  having  a  hare  drive  some  day 
soon — avv^ay  at  a  great  distance,  at  the  highest  parts.  You 
will  come  and  help  them,  I  suppose  ?  " 


YOLANDE.  2-23 

"I think  I  must  go  in  to  Inverness,  and  I  may  have  to 
bo  there  for  some  days." 

"You  will  come  and  see  us  before  you  go,  then?"  she 
inquired,  but  rather  puzzled  by  the  strangeness,  almost 
stiffness,  of  his  manner. 

"  I  hope  so,"  said  he.  "  I  am  glad  to  see  you  looking 
so  well.  I  hear  they  have  been  having  good  sport  at  Allt- 
nam-Ba.     Well,  I  must  not  detain  you.     Good-by." 

"  Good-by,"  and  she  drove  on,  wondering.  He  had  not 
even  asked  how  her  father  was.  But  perhaps  these  busi- 
ness affairs  were  weighing  on  his  mind. 


CHAPTER  XXVIII. 

THE      GALE. 

As  night  fell,  the  storm  that  Jack  Melville  had  foreseen 
began  to  moan  along  the  upper  reaches  of  the  hills  ;  and 
from  time  to  time  smart  torrents  of  rain  came  rattling  down, 
until  the  roar  of  the  confluent  streams  out  there  in  the  dark 
sounded  ominously  enough.  All  through  the  night,  too,  the 
fury  of  the  gale  steadily  increased ;  the  gusts  of  wind 
sweeping  down  the  gorge  shook  the  small  building  (although 
solidly  built  of  stone)  to  its  very  foundations ;  and  even  the 
fierce  howling  of  the  hurricane  was  as  nothing  to  the  thun- 
der of  the  now  swollen  waters,  that  seemed  to  threaten  to 
carry  away  the  whole  place  before  them.  Sleep  was 
scarcely  povssible  to  the  inmates  of  this  remote  little  lodge  ; 
they  knew  not  what  might  not  happen  up  in  this  weather- 
brewing  cauldron  of  a  place  ;  and  at  last,  after  an  anxious 
night,  and  toward  the  blurred  gray  of  the  morning,  they 
must  have  thought  their  worst  fears  were  about  to  be  real- 
ized, for  suddenly  there  was  a  terrific  crash,  as  if  part  of 
the  building  had  given  way.  Almost  instantly  every  bed- 
room door  was  opened  :  clearly  no  one  had  been  asleep. 
And  then,  through  a  white  cloud  of  dust,  they  began  to 
make  out  what  had  happened  ;  and  although  that  was  mere- 
ly the  falling  in  of  part  of  the  ceiling  of  the  hall,  of  course 
they  did  not  know  how  much  more  was  likely  to  come 
down,   and  Mr.  Winterbourne  called  to  Yolande,   sternly 


224  YOLANDE. 

forbidding  her  to  stir.  John  Sliortlands  was  the  first  to 
venture  out,  and  tlirough  the  cloud  of  plaster  dust  he  began 
to  make  his  examinations,  furnished  with  a  long  broom- 
handle  that  he  obtained  from  one  of  the  frightened  maids. 

"  It  is  all  right,"  he  said.  "  There  are  one  or  two  other 
pieces  that  must  come  down  ;  then  the  rest  will  be  safe. 
Yolande,  you  can  go  back  to  bed.  What?  Well,  then,  go 
back  and  shut  your  door,  anyway,  until  I  get  Duncan  and 
the  gillies  to  shovel  this  stuff  away.  Don't  come  out 
until  I  tell  you." 

John  Shorthands  then  went  downstairs,  got  a  cap,  and 
opened  the  hall  door.  The  spectacle  outside  was  certainly 
enough  to  deter  any  but  the  bravest.  There  was  no  rain, 
but  the  raging  hurricane  seemed  to  fill  the  atmospliere  with 
a  gray  mist,  while  from  time  to  time  a  gust  would  sweep 
down  into  the  bed  of  the  stream,  tear  the  water  there  into 
a  white  smoke,  and  then  whirl  that  up  the  opposite  hillside 
until  it  was  dissolved  in  the  general  vapor.  But  these 
water-spouts,  he  quickly  perceived,  were  only  formed  down 
there  in  the  opener  stretches  of  the  strath,  where  the  gusts 
could  get  freely  at  the  bed  of  the  stream  ;  up  here  at  Allt- 
nam-Ba  there  was  nothing  but  the  violence  of  the  wind 
.that  came  in  successive  shocks  against  the  lodge,  shaking  it 
as  if  it  were  in  the  grip  of  a  vise. 

He  ventured  out.  His  first  experience  was  to  find  his 
deer-stalking  cap,  which  he  greatly  prized,  whirled  from  off 
his  head,  and  sent  flying  away  in  the  direction  of  the  AUt- 
cam-Ban.  But  he  was  not  to  be  daunted.  He  went  in- 
doors again  and  got  another;,  and  then,  going  out  and  put- 
ting his  bullet  head  and  his  splendid  bulk  against  the  wind, 
he  fairly  butted  his  way  across  to  the  bothy. 

He  found  Duncan  trying  to  put  up  some  boards  where 
a  window  had  been  blown  in  ;  and  an  angry  man  was  he 
when  he  learned  from  Mr.  Shortlands  what  had  happened 
at  the  lodge. 

"  The  Master  will  give  it  him  !  "  he  said,  savagely. 

"  Whom  ?  " 

"  The  plasterer  from  Inverness,  sir.  I  was  telling  him 
it  was  no  use  mending  and  mending,  but  that  it  was  a  whole 
new  ceiling  that  was  wanted,  after  such  a  wild  winter  as 
the  last  winter.  The  Master  will  be  very  angry.  The 
young  lady  might  have  been  hurt." 

"The  young  lady  might  have  been  hurt!"  said  John 
Shortlands,   ironically.      "  Yes,   I  should  think  so,  if  she 


YOLANDE  V  226 

happened  to  have  been  passing.  But  in  this  part  of  the 
country,  Duncan,  is  it  only  women  who  are  hurt  when  th€ 
ceiling  of  a  house  falls  on  them  ?    The  men  don't  mind  ?" 

Duncan  was  quite  impervious  to  irony,  however.  He 
went  away  to  get  Sandy  and  the  rest  of  them  to  help  him 
in  shovelling  off  the  plaster — going  out,  indeed,  into  this 
raging  tempest  in  his  shirt  sleeves  and  with  a  bare  head, 
just  as  if  nothing  at  all  unusual  were  happening. 

Of  course  with  the  inhabitants  of  the  lodge  there  was  no 
thought  of  stirring  out  that  day.  They  built  up  the  fires 
in  the  little  dining  and  drawing  rooms,  and  took  to  books, 
or  the  arrangement  of  flies,  or  the  watching  at  the  window 
how  the  gale  was  still  playing  its  cantrips — tearing  at  the 
scant  vegetation  of  the  place,  and  occasionally  scooping  up 
one  of  those  vaporous  water-spouts  from  the  bed  of  the 
stream.  Then  Yolande  managed  to  do  a  little  bit  of  house- 
hold adornment — with  some  audible  grumbling. 

"  Dear  me,"  she  said,  standing  at  the  dining-room  fire, 
"  did  ever  any  one  see  two  such  untidy  persons  ?  There  is 
a  fine  row  of  ornaments  for  a  mantelshelf !  I  wonder  what 
madame  would  say.  Let  us  see  :  First,  some  cartridges ; 
why  are  they  not  in  the  bag?  Second,  a  dog-whistle.  Third, 
some  casting-lines.  Fourth,  a  fly-book;  well,  I  will  make  a 
little  order  by  putting  the  casting-lines  in  the  book — " 

"  Let  them  alone,  Yolande,"  her  father  said,  sharply. 
"  You  will  only  make  confusion." 

She  put  them  in,  nevertheless,  and  continued  her  enu- 
meration : 

"  Fifth,  some  rifle  cartridges  :  and  if  one  were  to  fall  in 
the  fire,  what  then?  Sixth,  the  stoppers  of  a  fishing-rod. 
Now,  the  carelessness  of  it !  Why  does  not  Duncan  take 
your  rod  to  pieces,  Mr.  Shortlands,  and  put  in  the  stopj^ers  ? 
I  know  where  he  keeps  it — outside  the  bothy,  just  over  the 
windows  :  and  think,  now,  how  it  must  have  been  shaken 
last  night.     Think  of  the  varnish  !  " 

"  I  believe  you're  right,  Yolande,"  said  he ;  "  but  it 
saves  a  heap  of  trouble." 

"  Seventh,  a  little  silver  fish  in  a  box — a  deceitful  little 
beast  all  covered  with  hooks.  Eighth,  a  flask,  with  wliiskcy 
or  some  horrid-smelling  stuff  in  it:  ah,  madame,  what 
w^ould  you  think  ?  Then  a  telescope :  well,  that  is  some- 
thing better;  that  is  something  better.  AUons^  we  will  go 
and  look  at  the  .storm." 

Looking  out  of  the  window  was  clear)  v  impracticable. 


226  YOLANDE. 

for  the  panes  were  blurred  ;  but  she  went  to  the  hall  door, 
opened  it,  and  directed  the  glass  down  the  valley.  She 
was  quite  alone ;  the  others  were  busy  with  their  books. 
Then  suddenly  she  called  to  them, — 

"  Come !  come  !  There  is  some  one  that  I  can  see — oh ! 
imagine  any  one  fighting  against  such  a  storm  !  A  stranger? 
Perhaps  a  friend  from  England  ?  Ah,  such  a  day  to  arrive  ! 
Or  perhaps  a  shepherd  ? — no,  there  are  no  dogs  with 
him—" 

Well,  the  appearance  of  a  human  being  on  any  day,  let 
alone  such  a  day  as  this,  in  this  upland  strath,  was  an  event 
and  instantly  they  were  all  at  the  door.  They  could  not  make 
him  out,  much  less  could  they  guess  on  what  errand  any 
one,  stranger  or  friend,  should  be  willing  to  venture  himself 
against  such  a  gale.  But  that  figure  away  down  there  kept 
making  headway  against  the  wind.  They  could  see  how  his 
form  was  bent,  his  head  proiecting  forward.  He  was  not 
a  shepherd  :  as  Yolande  had  observed,  he  had  no  dogs  with 
him.  He  was  not  the  Master  of  Lynn ;  that  figure  belonged 
to  a  bigger  man  than  the  Master. 

"  I'll  tell  you  who  it  is,"  said  John  Shortlands,  curtly. 
"  It's  Jack  Melville.     Three  to  one  on  it." 

"  Oh,  the  folly !  "  Yolande  exclaimed,  in  quite  real  dis- 
tress.    "  He  will  be  blown  over  a  rock." 

'*  Not  a  bit  of  it,"  said  John  Shortlands,  to  comfort  her. 
"  The  people  about  here  don't  think  anything  of  a  squall 
like  this.  Look  at  Duncan  there,  marching  down  to  dig 
some  potatoes  for  the  cook.  A  head  keeper  in  the  South 
wouldn't  be  as  good-natured  as  that,  I  warrant  you.  They 
are  much  too  swell  gentlemen  there  " 

And  it  was  Jack  Melville,  after  all.  He  was  very  much 
blown  when  he  arrived,  but  he  soon  recovered  breath,  and 
proceeded  to  say  that  he  had  been  afraid  that  the  gale 
might  catch  the  boat  and  do  some  mischief. 

"And  it  has,"  said  he.  "It  is  blown  right  over  to  tho 
other  side,  and  apparently  jammed  between  some  rocks. 
So  I  have  come  along  to  got  Donald  and  one  of  the  gillies 
to  go  with  me,  and  we  will  have  it  hauled  clear  up  on  the 
land." 

''  Indeed,  no  !  "  Yolande  protested,  with  pleading  in  her 
face.  "  Oh  no  ! — on  such  a  day  why  should  you  go  out? 
Come  in  and  stay  with  us.     What  is  a  boat,  then — " 

"  But,"  said  he,  with  a  sort  of  laugh,  "I  am  afraid  I  am 


YOLANDE.  227 

partly  responsible  for  it.  I  was  the  last  that  used  the 
boat." 

"  Never  mind  it,"  said  she  :  "  what  is  it — a  boat !  No, 
you  must  not  go  through  the  storm  again." 

"  Oh,  but  we  are  familiar  with  these  things  up  here," 
said  he,  good-naturedly.  "  If  you  really  mean  to  invite 
me  in,  I  will  come — after  Donald  and  I  have  gone  down 
to  the  loch." 

'  Will  you?  "  she  said,  with  her  bright  face  full  of  wel- 
come and  gladness. 

"  I  must  come  back  with  my  report,  you  know,  "  said  he. 
"  For  I  am  afraid  she  may  have  got  knocked  about ;  and  if 
there  is  any  damage,  I  must  make  it  good." 

"  Nonsense  !  "  Mr.  Winterbourne  interrupted. 

"  Oh,  but  I  must.  It  is  Lord  Lynn's  boat ;  and  there 
are  people  from  whom  one  is  not  quick  to  accept  an  obliga- 
tion. But  then  there  are  other  people,"  said  he,  turning  to 
Yolande,  **  from  whom  you  can  receive  any  number  of 
favors  with  great  pleasure  ;  and  if  you  don't  mind  my  stay- 
ing to  lunch  with  you — if  I  may  invite  myself  to  stay  so 
long—" 

"  Do  you  think  I  would  have  allowed  you  to  go  away 
before  ?  "  she  said,  with  a  touch  of  pride  in  her  tone  :  she 
had  got  to  know  something  of  Highland  ways  and  customs. 

So  he  and  Donald  and  two  others  went  away  down  the 
glen,  and  in  about  a  couple  of  hours  came  back  with  the 
report  that  the  boat  was  now  placed  in  a  secure  position, 
but  that  it  had  had  two  planks  stove  in,  and  would  have  to 
be  sent  to  Inverness  for  repair.  Jack  Melville  insisting  on 
taking  that  responsibility  on  his  own  shoulders,  although, 
as  a  matter  of  fact,  the  Master  of  Lynn  had  assisted  him  in 
dragging  the  boat  up  onthe  last  occasion  on  which  it  had  been 
used.  As  for  Yolande,  she  did  not  care  for  any  trumpery 
boat ;  was  it  not  enough  that  their  friend  should  have  come 
to  keep  them  company  on  this  wild  and  solitary  day  ?  Then 
there  was  another  thing.  She  had  determined  to  astonish 
the  gentlemen  with  the  novelty  of  a  hot  luncheon,  and 
here  was  another  who  would  see  what  the  little  household 
could  do !  Indeed,  it  was  a  banquet.  Her  father  drew 
pointed  attention  to  the  various  things  (although  he  was 
himself  far  enough  from  being  a  gourmand).  A  venison 
pasty  Jolm  Shortlands  declared  to  have  been  the  finest  dish 
he  had  encountered  for  many  a  day.  He  wished  to  heavens 
they  coulJ  make  a  salad  like  that  at  the  Abercorn  Club. 


228  YOLANDE. 

"Is  it  not  nice  to  see  them  so  gr.'iteful  ?  "  said  she,  turi> 
ing  with  one  of  her  brightest  smiles  to  the  stranger  guest. 
"  The  poor  things  !  Ko  wonder  they  are  pleased.  The 
other  day  I  climbed  away  up  the  hill  to  surprise  them  at 
their  lunch — oh,  you  can  not  imagine  the  miserableness  oi 
it!  Duncan  told  me  where  I  should  find  them.  The  day 
was  so  dull  and  cold,  the  clouds  low  down,  and  before  I 
was  near  the  top,  a  rainy  drizzle  began — " 

"  They  generally  say  a  drizzling  rain  in  English,"  her 
father  said. 

"  But  we  are  not  in  England.  It  is  a  rainy  drizzle  in 
the  Highlands,  is  it  not,  Mr.  Melville?" 

"  It  does  not  matter  how  you  take  it,"  he  answered ; 
"  but  we  get  plenty  of  it." 

*'  Then  the  cold  wet  all  around,  and  the  heather  wet ; 
and  I  went  on  and  on — not  a  voice — not  a  sign  of  any  one. 
Then  a  dog  came  running  to  me — that  was  Belln — and  I 
said  to  myself,  *  Aha,  I  have  found  you  now  ! '  Then  we 
went  on;  and  at  last — the  spectacle! — the  poor  people  all 
crouched  down  in  a  peat-hag,  hiding  from  the  rain  ;  papa 
seated  on  a  game-bag  that  he  had  put  on  a  stone ;  Mr. 
Shortlands  on  another ;  their  coat  collars  up,  the  plates  on 
their  knees,  the  knives,  forks,  cold  beef,  and  bread  all  wet 
with  the  rain — oh,  such  a  picture  of  miserableness  has  never' 
been  seen !  Do  you  wonder  that  they  are  grateful,  then — 
do  you  wonder  that  they  approve — when  they  have  a  fire, 
and  a  warm  room,  and  dry  plates,  and  dry  knives  and 
forks?" 

Indeed  they  had  a  very  pleasant  meal,  and  the  coffee 
and  cigars  after  it  lasted  a  long  time ;  for  of  what  good  was 
anything  but  laziness  so  long  as  the  wind  howled  and 
roared  without?  All  the  time,  however,  Jack  Melville  was 
wondering  how  he  could  have  a  few  minutes'  private  talk 
with  Mr.  Shortlands;  and  as  that  seemed  to  be  becoming 
less  and  less  probable — for  Mr.  Winterbourne  seemed  con- 
tent to  have  an  idle  day  there  in  his  easy-chair  by  the  fire, 
and  Yolande  was  seated  on  the  hearthrug  at  his  knees,  quite 
content  to  be  idle  too — he  had  to  adopt  a  somewhat  wild 
pretext.  John  Shortlands  was  describing  the  newest  variety 
of  haramerless  gun  ;  then  he  spoke  of  the  one  he  himself 
had  bought  just  before  coming  north.  Melville  pretended 
a  great  interest.  Was  it  in  the  bothy  ?  Yes.  Might  they 
not  run  over  for  a  couple  of  minutes  ?  Yolande  protested  ; 


YOLANDE.  229 

but  John  Shortlands  assented  ;  so  these  two  ventured  out 
together  to  fight  their  way  across. 

Instead  of  going  into  the  central  apartment  of  the  bothy, 
however,  where  the  guns  stood  on  a  rack,  Melville  turned 
into  the  next  apartment,  which  was  untenanted,  and  which 
happened  to  be  warm  enough,  for  Duncan  liad  just  been 
preparing  porridge  for  the  dogs,  and  a  blazing  fire  still 
burned  under  the  boiler. 

"  I  wanted  to  say  a  Word  to  you," 

"  I  guessed  as  much.     What's  your  news  ?  " 

"  Well,  not  very  good,"  said  Jack  Melville,  rather  gloom- 
ily, "and  I  don't  like  to  be  the  bearer  of  bad  news.  I 
meant  to  tell  you  the  other  evening,  and  I  could  not  do  it 
somehow." 

"  Oh,  out  with  it,  man  !  never  fear.  I  like  to  hear  the 
worst,  and  then  hit  it  on  the  head  with  a  hammer  if  I  can. 
There  would  have  been  none  of  this  trouble  if  I  had  had 
my  way  from  the  beginning — however  that^  neither  here 
nor  there." 

"  I  am  afraid  I  am  the  bearer  of  an  ultimatum,"  Mel- 
ville said. 

"Well?" 

It  was  clear  that  Melville  divi  not  like  this  oflSce  at  all. 
He  kept  walking  up  and  down  the  earthen  floor,  though 
the  space  was  limited  enough,  his  brows  contracted,  his 
eyes  bent  on  the  ground. 

"  It  is  awkward  for  me,"  he  said,  rather  impatiently. 
"  I  wish  I  had  had  nothing  to  do  with  it.  But  you  cannot 
call  me  an  intermeddler,  for  you  yourself  put  this  thing  on 
me  ;  and — and —  Well,  it  is  not  my  business  either  to  jus- 
tify or  condemn  my  friend  :  I  can  only  tell  you  that  I  con- 
sidered it  was  safest  and  wisest  he  should  know  the  true 
state  of  affairs.     If  I  have  erred  in  that,  well — " 

"  I  don't  think  you  have,"  said  Shortlands,  slowly.  "  I 
left  it  open  to  your  decision — to  your  knowledge  of  this 
young  fellow.  But  I  think  my  decision  would,  in  any  case, 
have  been  the  same." 

"  Very  well.  I  think  I  put  the  whole  matter  fairly  to 
him.  I  told  him  that  he  had  practically  no  risk  to  run  of 
any  annoyance,  and  that  the  cause  of  all  this  trouble,  poor 
wretch,  would  soon  be  out  of  the  way ;  and  then  I  told  him 
what  Mr.  Winterbourne  had  gone  through  for  the  sake  of 
his  daughter.     Well,  he  did  not  seem  to  see  it  that  way. 


230  YOLANDE. 

He  was  quite  frank.     He  said  it  was  a  mistaken  Quixotism 
that  had  been  at  the  bottom  of  it  all." 

"  I  said  so  too  ;  but  still " 

"  It  is  a  matter  of  opinion  ;  it  is  of  no  immediate  conse- 
quence," Melville  said.  "  But  what  he  seemed  quite  re- 
solved on  was  that  he  would  not  consent  to  become  a  party 
to  this  secrecy.  He  says  everything  must  be  met  and  faced. 
There  must  be  no  concealment.  In  short,  Yolande  must 
be  told  the  whole  story,  so  that  in  "case  of  any  further  an- 
noyance there  should  be  no  dread  of  her  discovering  it,  but 
only  the  simple  remedy  of  appealing  to  a  constable." 

John  Shortlands  considered  for  a  minute  or  two. 

"I  don't  know  that  he  isn't  quite  right,"  he  said,  slowly, 
*'  Yes  I  imagine  his  position  is  a  fair  one.  At  one  time  I 
said  the  same.  I  can  look  at  it  from  his  point  of  view.  I 
think  we  must  admit,  as  men  of  the  world,  that  he  is  per- 
fectly in  the  right.  But" — and  here  he  spoke  a  little  more 
quickly — "I  can't  help  speaking  what  is  on  my  mind  ;  and 
I  say  that  if  you  think  of  what  Winterbourne  has  done  for 
this  girl,  this  ultimatum,  if  you  call  it  so,  from  the  fellow 
who  pretends  to  be  her  sweetheart,  from  the  fellow  who 
wants  her  for  a  wife — well,  I  call  it  a — shabby  thing!  " 

Melville's  face  flushed.  "  I  am  not  his  judge,"  he 
said  coldly. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,"  John  Shortlands  said  ;  for  his  an- 
ger was  of  short  duration.  "  I  ought  to  have  remembered 
that  this  young  Leslie  is  your  friend,  as  Winterbourne  is 
mine.     I  beg  your  pardon  ;  I  can  do  no  more." 

"  Yes,  you  can,"  said  Melville  in  the  same  measured 
way.  '*  I  wish  you  distinctly  to  understand  that  I  express 
no  opinion  whatever  on  Mr.  Leslie's  decision  ;  and  I  must 
ask  you  to  remember  that  1  certainly  can  not  be  supposed 
to  approve  of  it  simply  because  I  am  a  messenger." 

"  Quite  so — quite  so ;  I  quite  understand,"  John  Shor^ 
lands  said.  "  The  least  said  the  easiest  mended.  Let's  see 
what  is  to  be  done.  I  suppose  there  was  no  doubt  in  his 
mind — no  hesitation  ?  " 

«  None." 

"  It  would  be  no  good  trying  to  talk  him  over  ?  " 

"I,  for  one,  will  not  attempt  it.  Xo,  his  message  was 
distinct.  I  think  you  may  take  it  as  final.  Perhaps  I  ought 
to  add  that  he  may  have  been  influenced  by  the  fact  that 
his  people  at  the  Towers  seem  to  have  been  quarrelling 
with  him  about  this  marriage,  and  he  has  not  the  best  of 


VOLANDE,  231 

tempers  at  times,  and  I  think  he  feels  injured.  However, 
that  is  not  part  of  my  message.  My  message  was  distinct, 
as  I  say.     It  was,  in  fact,  an  ultimatum." 

"  Poor  Winterbourne  !  "  John  Shortlands  said,  absently. 
"  I  wonder  what  he  will  look  like  when  I  tell  him.  All 
his  labor  and  care  and  anxiety  gone  for  nothing.  I  sup- 
pose I  must  tell  him  ;  there  must  be  an  explanation  ;  I  dare 
say  that  young  fellow  won't  come  near  the  lodge  now  until 
there  is  an  understanding.  Winterbourne  will  scarcely  be- 
lieve me.  Poor  devil — all  his  care  and  anxiety  gone  for 
nothing !  I  don't  mind  about  her  so  much.  Slie  has  pluck  ; 
she'll  face  it.  But  Winterbourne — I  wonder  what  his  face 
will  look  like  to-night  when  I  tell  him." 

"  Well,  I  have  done  my  best  and   my  worst,  I  suppose 
however  it  turns  out,"  said  Jack  Melville,  after  a  second  oi 
two.     "  And  now  I  will  bid  you  good-by." 
*  But  you  are  going  into  the  house  ?  " 
"  No," 

*'  No  ?  *'  said  the  other,  in  astonishment.  '*  You'll  bid 
them  good-by,  I  suppose  ?  " 

''  I  cannot !  "  said  Melville,  turning  himself  away  in  a 
manner.  "  Why,  to  look  at  that  girl — and  to  think  of  the 
man  she  is  going  to  marry  having  no  more  regard  for  her 
than  to — "  But  be  suddenly  recalled  himself  :  this  was 
certainly  not  maintaining  his  attitude  of  impartiality. 
*'  Yes,"  said  he,  "  I  suppose  I  must  go  in  to  bid  them  good- 
by." 

They  were  loath  to  let  him  depart,  Mr.  Winterbourne, 
indeed,  wishing  him  to  remain  for  dinner  and  stay  the 
night.  But  they  could  not  prevail  on  him  ;  and  soon  he 
was  making  his  way  with  his  long  strides  down  the  glen, 
the  gale  now  assisting  instead  of  impeding  his  progress, 
John  Shortlands  (who  was  apt  to  form  sudden  and  rather 
violent  prepossessions  and  prejudices)  was  looking  after  him, 
as  the  tall  figure  grew  more  and  more  distant. 

"  There  goes  a  man,"  he  was  saying  to  himself ;  "  and  I 
wish  to  heavens  be  would  kick  that  hound  I  " 


282  YOLANDE. 


HAPTER  XXIX. 

SURMISES. 

The  gale  was  followed  by  heavy  rain  ;  there  was  no  %o- 
ing  out  the  next  day.  But  indeed  it  was  not  of  shooting 
that  those  two  men  were  thinking. 

"  He  might  have  spared  her !  he  might  have  spared  her  !  " 
was  Mr.  Winterboiirne's  piteous  cry,  as  he  sat  in  his  friend's 
room  and  gazed  out  through  the  streaming  window-panes 
on  the  dismal  landscape  beyond. 

And  who  was  to  tell  her  ?  Who  was  to  bring  grief  and 
humiliation  on  that  fair  young  life  ?  Who  was  to  rob  her 
of  that  beautiful  dream  and  vision  that  her  mother  had  al- 
ways been  to  her  ?  Not  he,  for  one.     He  could  not  do  it. 

.  And  then  (for  he  was  a  nervous,  apprehensive  man,  al- 
ways ready  to  conjure  up  distressing  possibilities)  might 
she  not  misunderstand  all  this  that  had  been  done  to  keep 
her  in  ignorance  ?  Might  she  not  be  angry  at  having  all  her 
life  been  surrounded  by  an  atmosphere  of  concealment  ?  If 
she  were  to  mistake  the  reason  of  her  father's  having 
stooped  to  subterfuge  and  deceit  ?  Was  Yolande  going  to 
despise  him,  then — she,  the  only  being  in  the  world  whose 
opinion  he  cared  for  ?  And  always  his  speculations  and  fears 
and  anxious  conjectures  came  back  to  this  one  point, — 

"He  might  have  spared  her!  he  might  have  spared 
her!" 

"  Now  look  here,  Winterbourne,"  John  Shortlands  said, 
in  his  plain-spoken  way.  "  If  I  were  you  before  I  would 
say  a  word  of  this  story  to  Yolande  I  would  make  sure  that 
that  would  be  sufficient  for  him.  I  don't  know.  I  am  not 
sure.  He  says  that  Yolande  must  be  told  ;  but  will  that 
suffice  ?  Is  that  all  he  wants  ?  If  I  were  in  your  place  I 
would  have  a  clear  understanding.  Do  you  know,  I  can't 
help  thinking  there  is  something  behind  all  this  that  hasn't 
come  out.  If  this  young  fellow  is  really  in  earnest  about 
Yolande — if  he  is  really  fond  of  her — I  don't  think  he 
would  put  this  stumbling-block  in  the  way,  I  don't  think 
he  would  exact  this  sacrifice  from  you,  unless  there  were 
some  other  reason.     Yesterday  afternoon  Melville  said  as 


YOLANDE.  233 

Jittle  as  he  could.  He  didn't  like  the  job.  But  he  hinted 
something  about  a  disagreement  between  young  Leslie  and 
his  family  over  this  marriage." 

"  I  guessed  as  much,"  said  Mr.  Winterbourne.  "  Yes, 
I  have  suspected  it  for  some  time.  Otherwise  I  suppose 
his  father  and  aunt  would  have  called  on  Yolande.  They 
know  each  other.  Yolande  stayed  a  night  at  the  Towers 
when  Mrs.  Graham  first  brought  her  here — until  the  lodge 
was  got  ready." 

"  Of  course  if  the  fellow  has  any  pluck,  he  won't  let 
that  stand  in  his  way.  In  the  meantime,  a  domestic  row 
isn't  pleasant,  and  I  dare  say  he  is  impatient  and  angry. 
Why  should  he  revenge  himself  on  Yolande,  one  might  ask  ? 
But  that  is  not  the  fair  way  of  putting  it.  I  can  see  one 
explanation.  I  didn't  see  it  yesterday ;  and  the  fact  is,  I 
got  pretty  wild  when  I  learned  how  matters  stood,  and  my 
own  impression  was  that  kicking  was  a  sight  too  good  for 
him.  I  have  been  thinking  over  it  since,  though  :  the  rain 
last  night  kept  me  awake.  And  now  I  can  understand  his 
saying,  '  Well,  I  mean  to  marry  in  spite  of  them  ;  but  I  will 
take  care,  before  I  marry,  to  guard  against  any  risk  of 
their  being  able  to  taunt  me  afterward.'  And  then,  no 
doubt,  he  may  have  had  some  sort  of  notion  that,  when 
there  was  no  more  concealment,  when  every  one  knew  how 
matters  stood,  some  steps  might  be  taken  to  prevent  the 
recurrence  of — of — you  know.  Well,  there  is  something  in 
that.     I  don't  see  that  the  young  fellow  is  so  unreasonable." 

Mr.  Winterbourne  was  scarcely  listening,  his  eyes  looked 
haggard  and  wretched. 

"  When  I  took  this  shooting,"  he  said,  absently,  "  when 
the  place  was  described  to  me,  on  the  voyage  out,  I  thought 
to  myself  that  surely  there  Yolande  and  T  would  be  safe 
from  all  anxiety  and  trouble.  And  then  again,  up  the  Nile, 
day  after  day  I  used  to  think  of  her  being  married  and 
settled  in  this  remote  place,  and  used  to  say  to  myself  that 
then  at  last  everything  would  be  right.  And  here  we  are 
face  to  face  with  more  trouble  than  ever." 

*' Nonsense,  man!  nonsense!"  John  Shortlands  said, 
cheerfully.  "  You  exaggerate  things.  I  thought  this  moun- 
tain work  would  have  given  you  a  better  nerve.  Every- 
thing will  be  right — in  time.  Do  you  expect  the  young 
people  never  to  have  any  trouble  at  all  ?  I  tell  you  every- 
thing will  be  right — in  time.  You  pull  up  your  courage ; 
there  is  nothing  so  dreadful  about  it ;  and  the  end  is  certain 


234  YOLANDE. 

— wedding  bells,  old  slippers,  speeches,  and  a  thundering 
headache  tlie  next  morning  after  confectioner's  champagne. 

The  liaggard  eyes  did  not  respond. 

"  And  who  is  to  teH  her?  The  shock  will  be  terrible- 
it  may  kill  her." 

"  Nonsense  !  nonsense  !  Whoever  is  to  tell  her,  it  must 
not  be  yon.  You  would  make  such  a  fuss;  you  would 
make  it  far  more  desperate  than  it  is.  Why,  yon  might 
frighten  her  into  declaring  that  she  would  not  marry — that 
she  would  not  ask  her  husband  to  run  the  risk  of  some  pub- 
lic scandal.  Tiiat  would  be  a  pretty  state  of  affairs — and 
not  unlikely  on  the  part  of  a  proud,  spirited  girl  like  that. 
No,  no  ;  whoever  tells  her  must  put  the  matter  in  its  proper 
light.  It  is  nothing  so  very  desj)erate.  It  will  turn  out  all 
right.  And  you  for  one  should  be  very  glad  that  the  Master, 
as  you  call  him,  now  knows  the  whole  story ;  for  after  the 
marriage,  whatever  happens,  he  cannot  come  back  on  you 
and  say  you  had  deceived  him. 

*'  After  the  marriage  !  And  what  sort  of  a  happy  life 
is  Yolandc  likely  to  lead  when  his  relatives  object  to  her 
already  ?  "      \ 

"  Tliere  ycm  are  off  again  !  More  difficulties  I  Why, 
man,  these  things  must  be  taken  as  they  come.  You  don't 
know  that  they  *ibject,  and  I  don't  believe  they  can  object 
to  her,  though  thft  old  gentleman  mayn't  quite  like  the  color 
of  your  politics.  /But  supposing  they  do,  what's  the  odds? 
They  can't  interfere.  You  will  settle  enough  on  Yolande 
to  let  the  young/couple  live  comfortably  enough  until  the 
old  gentleman  and  his  sister  arrive  at  common  sense — or 
the  churchyard.  I  don't  see  any  difficulty  about  it.  If 
only  those  people  were  to  marry  whose  friends  and  relatives 
on  both  sides  approved,  you  might  just  as  well  cut  the 
Marriage  Service  out  of  the  Prayer-book  at  once." 

This  was  all  that  was  said  at  the  time,  and  it  must  be 
admitted  that  it  left  Mr.  Winterbourne  pretty  much  in  the 
same  mood  of  anxious  perturbation.  His  careworn  face 
instantly  attracted  Yolande's  notice,  and  she  asked  him  what 
was  the  matter.  He  answered  that  there  was  nothing  the 
matter,  except  the  dulness  of  the  day  perhaps,  and  for  the 
moment  she  was  satisfied.  But  she  was  not  long  satisfied. 
She  became  aware  that  there  was  trouble  somewhere; 
there  was  a  kind  of  constraint  in  the  social  atmosphere  of 
the  house;  she  even  found  the  honest  and  hearty  John 
Shortlands  given  to  moody  staring  into  the  fire.     So  she 


I 


YOLANDE.  235 

went  to  her  own  room,  and  sat  down  and  wrote  the  follow- 
ing note : — 

*'  Allt-nam-Ba.  Friday. 
"  My  deak  Akchie, — We  are  all  in  a  state  of  dreadful 
depression  here,  on  account  of  the  bad  weather,  and  the 
gentlemen  shut  up  witli  nothing  to  do.  Please,  please  take 
pity  on  us,  and  come  along  to  dinner  at  seven.  Last  night, 
in  spite  of  the  gale,  Duncan  played  the  *  Hills  of  Lynn'  out- 
side after  dinner,  and  it  seemed  a  kind  of  message  that  you 
ought  to  have  been  here.  I  believe  the  gentlemen  have 
iBxed  next  Tuesday,  if  the  weather  is  fine,  for  the  driving 
of  the  hares  on  the  far-off  heights :  and  I  know  they  expect 
you  to  go  with  them  ;  and  we  have  engaged  a  whole  crowd 
of  shepherds  and  others  to  help  in  the  beating.  There  is 
to  be  a  luncheon  where  the  Uska-nan-Shean,  as  Duncan 
calls  it,  but  I  am  afraid  the  spelling  is  not  right,  comes  into 
the  AUt  Crom,  and  it  will  not  be  difficult  for  me  to  reach 
there,  so  that  I  can  see  how  you  have  been  getting  on.  Do 
ou  know  that  Monaglen  is  for  sale  ? — what  a  joy  it  will 
e  if  Mr.  Melville  should  get  it  back  again  after  all !  that 
w^ill  indeed  be  *  Melville's  Welcome  Home  !  "  5fou  will 
make  us  all  very  happy  if  you  will  come  along  at  seven, 
and  spend  the  evening  with  us.     Yours  affectionately. 

"  YoLANDE." 

She  sent  this  out  to  be  taken  to  Lynn  Towers  by  one  of 
the  gillies,  who  was  to  wait  for  an  answer ;  and  in  some- 
thing more  than  an  hour  the  lad  on  the  sturdy  little  black 
pony  brought  back  this  note  : 

"  Lynn  Towers,  Friday ^  afternoon. 
"  Dear  Yolande, — I  regret  very  much  that  I  cannot 
dine  with  you  to-night ;  and  as   for  Tuesday,  I  am  afraid 
that  will  be  also  impossible,  as  I  go  to  Inverness  to-morrow. 
I  hope  they  will  have  a  good  day.        Yours  sincerely, 

"  A.  Leslie." 

She  regarded  this  answer  at  first  with  astonishment ; 
then  she  felt  inclined  to  laugh. 

'*Look  at  this,  then,  for  a  love-letter  I "  she  said  to 
herself. 

But  by  and  by  she  began  to  attach  more  importance 
to  it.  The  coldness  of  it  seemed  studied  ;  yet  she  had  dono 
nothing  that  she  knew  of  to  offend  him.  What  was  amiss  ? 
Could  he  be  dissatisfied  with  her  conduct  in  any  direction? 


236  YOLANDE. 

She  had  tried  to  be  most  kind  to  him,  as  was  her  duty,  and 
until  quite  recently  they  had  been  on  most  friendly  terms. 
What  had  she  done  ?  Then  she  began  to  form  the  suspi- 
cion that  her  father  and  John  Shortlands  were  concealing 
something — she  knew  not  what — from  her.  Had  it  any- 
thing to  do  with  the  Master  ?  Had  it  anything  to  do  with 
the  singular  circumstance  that  not  even  the  most  formal 
visiting  relationship  had  been  established  between  Lynn 
Towers  and  the  lodge  ?  Why  did  her  father  seem  disturbed 
when  she  proposed  to  send  a  haunch  of  venison  to  the  Tow 
ers — the  most  common  act  of  civility? 

It  was  strange  that,  with  these  disquieting  surmises  go- 
ing on  in  her  brain,  she  should  think  of  seeking  information 
and  counsel,  not  from  her  father  nor  from  Mr.  Shortlands, 
nor  from  the  Master  of  Lynn,  but  from  Jack  Melville.  It 
was  quite  spontaneously  and  naturally  that  she  thought  she 
would  like  to  put  all  her  difficulties  before  him  ;  but  on  re- 
flection she  justified  herself  to  herself.  He  was  most  likely 
to  know,  being  on  friendly  terms  with  everybody.  If  there 
was  nothing  to  disquiet  her — nothing  to  reproach  herself 
with — he  was  just  the  person  to  laugh  the  whole  thing 
away,  and  send  her  home  satisfied.  She  could  trust  him. 
He  did  not  treat  her  quite  so  much  as  a  child  as  the  others 
did.  Even  when  he  spoke  bluntly  to  her,  in  his  school- 
masterish  way,  she  had  a  vague  and  humorous  suspicion 
that  he  was  quite  aware  that  their  companionship  was  much 
more  on  a  common  footing  than  all  that  came  to ;  and  that 
she  submitted  because  she  thought  it  pleased  him.  Then 
she  had  got  to  believe  that  he  would  do  much  for  her.  If 
she  asked  him  to  tell  her  honestly  what  he  knew, 
he  would.  The  others  might  try  to  hide  things  from  her ; 
they  might  wish  to  be  considerate  toward  her ;  they  might 
be  afraid  of  wounding  her  sensitiveness ;  whereas  she 
knew  that  if  she  went  to  John  Melville  he  would  speak 
straight  to  her,  for  she  had  arrived  at  the  still  further  con- 
clusion that  he  knew  he  could  trust  her,  as  she  trusted  him. 
Altogether,  it  was  a  dangerous  situtation. 

Next  morning  had  an  evil  and  threatening  look  about  it ; 
but  fortunately  there  was  a  brisk  breeze,  and  towards  noon 
that  had  so  effectually  swept  the  clouds  over  that  the  long 
wide  valley  was  filled  with  bright  warm  sunshine.  Yolande 
resolved  to  drive  in  to  Gress.  There  was  no  game  to  takf 
to  Foyers  ;  but  there  were  two  consignments  of  household 
materials  from  Inverness  to   be  fetched  from  Whitebridge. 


YOLANDE.  237 

Besides,  she  wanted  to  know  what  Mrs.  Bell  had  done 
about  Monaglen  and  the  lawyers.  And  besides,  she  want- 
ed to  know  where  Alchemilla  arvensis  ended  and  A.  alpina 
began  ;  for  she  had  got  one  or  two  varieties  that  seemed  to 
come  in  between,  and  she  had  all  a  beginner's  faith  in  the 
strict  lines  of  species.  There  was,  in  short,  an  abundance 
of  reasons. 

On  arriving  at  Gress,  however,  she  found  that  Mr. 
Melville,  having  finished  his  forenoon  work  in  the  school, 
had  gone  off  to  his  electric  storehouse  away  up  in  the  hills ; 
and  so  she  sent  on  the  dog-cart  to  Whitebridge,  and  was 
content  to  wait  awhile  with  Mrs.  Bell. 

"  ril  just  send  him  a  message,  and  he'll  come  down 
presently." 

**  Oh  no,  please  don't ;  it  is  a  long  way  to  send  any  one," 
Yolande  protested. 

"  It's  no  a  long  way  to  send  a  wee  bit  flash  o'  fire,  or 
whatever  it  is  that  sets  a  bell  ringing  up  there,"  said  the 
old  dame.  "  It's  wonderful,  his  devices'  Sometimes  I  think 
it's  mair  than  naitural.  Over  there,  in  the  laboratory,  he 
has  got  a  kind  of  ear-trumpet ;  and  if  you  take  out  the  stop- 
per, and  listen  in  quateness,  you'll  hear  every  word  that's 
going  on  in  the  school." 

**  That  is  what  they  call  a  telephone,  I  suppose  ?  " 

"  The  very  thing  !  "  said  Mrs.  Bell,  as  she  left  the  room 
to  send  a  message  to  him. 

When  she  came  back  she  was  jubilant. 

"  My  dear  young  leddy,  I  am  that  glad  to  see  ye  !  I've 
sent  the  letter." 

"  What  letter?" 

*'  To  the  lawyers.  Oh,  I  was  a  lang,  lang  time  thinking 
o't,  for  they  lawyers  are  kittle  cattle  to  deal  wi' ;  and  I 
kenned  fine  if  I  was  too  eager  tliey  would  jalouse  what  I 
was  after,  and  then  they  would  be  up  to  their  pranks,  So 
I  just  telled  them  that  I  did  not  want  Monaglen  for  mysel' 
— whicli  is  as  true's  the  Gospel — but  that  if  they  happened 
to  hear  what  was  the  lowest  price  that  would  be  taken,  they 
might  send  me  word,  in  case  I  should  come  across  a  custo- 
mer for  them.  It  doesna  do  to  be  too  eager  about  a  bar- 
gain, especially  wi'  they  lawyers  ;  it's  just  inviting  tliem  to 
commit  a  highway  robbery  on  ye." 

"If  Mr. "Melville,"  said  Yolande,  quickly,  "were  to 
have  Monaglen,  he  would  still  remain  in  this  neighborhood^ 
then  ?  " 


238  •      YOLANDE. 

"  Nae  doot  about  that !  It'll  be  a'  a  man's  wark  to  put 
the  place  to  rights  again  ;  for  the  factor  is  a  puir  body,  and 
the  young  gentleman  never  came  here — he  has  plenty  else- 
where, I  have  been  told." 

"  Mr.  Melville  would  still  be  living  here  ?  "  said  Yolande, 
eagerly. 

"  At  Monaglen,  ay,  and  it's  no  so  far  away.  But  it  will 
mak*  a  difference  to  me,"  the  old  dame  said,  with  a  sigh. 
"  For  I  have  got  used  to  his  ways  about  the  hoose,  and  it 
will  seem  empty  like." 

*'  Then  you  will  not  go  to  Monaglen  ?  " 

"'Deed,  no  ;  that  would  never  do.  I  wouldna  like  to  go 
as  a  servant,  for  I  have  been  living  too  long  in  idleness ; 
and  I  couldna  go  back  in  any  other  kind  of  a  way,  fori  ken 
my  place.  Na,  na ;  I  will  just  bide  where  I  am,  and  I  will 
keep  £220  a  year  or  thereabouts  for  myseP  ;  and  wi'  that  I 
can  mak'  ends  meet  brawly,  in  spite  o'  they  spend rif  hus- 
sies." 

These  romantic  projects  seemed  to  have  a  great  fascinar 
tion  for  this  good  dame  (who  had  seen  far  less  that  was  at- 
tractive in  the  prospect  of  being  given  away  in  marriage  by 
a  famous  duke),  and  she  and  Yolande  kept  on  talking  about 
them  with  much  interest,  until  a  step  outside  on  the  gravel 
caused  the  color  to  rush  to  the  girl's  face.  She  did  not 
know  that  when  she  rose  on  his  entrance.  She  did  not  know 
that  she  looked  embarrassed,  because  she  did  not  feel  em- 
barrassed. Always  she  had  a  sense  of  safety  in  his  pres- 
ence. She  had  not  to  watch  her  words,  or  think  of  what  he 
was  thinking  of  what  she  was  saying.  And  on  this  occa- 
sion she  did  not  even  make  the  pretence  of  having  come 
about  Alclhemilla  alpma.  She  aj)ologized  for  having  brought 
him  down  from  his  electric  works,  asked  him  if  he  would 
take  a  turn  in  the  garden  for  a  minute  or  two,  as  she  had 
something  to  say  to  him,  and  then  went  out,  he  following. 
She  did  not  notice  that  when  she  made  this  last  remark  his 
face  looked  rather  grave. 

"Mr.  Leslie  went  to  Inverness  this  morning?  "  she  said, 
when  they  were  out  in  the  garden. 

"  Yes  ;  he  looked  in  as  he  was  passing." 

"  Do  you  know  why  he  went  ?  " 

"  Well,"  said  he ;  "I  believe  they  have  been  having 
■ome  dispute  about  the  marches  of  the  forest ;  but  I  am 
told  it  is  to  be  all  amicably  settled.  I  fancy  Archie  is  going 
to  have  the  matter  squared  up  in  Inverness." 


YOLANDE.  239 

She  hesitated  then.  She  took  up  a  flower,  regarded  it 
for  a  second,  and  then  looked  him  fair  in  the  face. 

"  Mr.  Melville,"  said  she,  "  do  you  think  it  strange  that 
I  ask  you  this  question  ? — you  are  Mr.  Leslie's  friend  :  is  he 
offended  with  me  ?  " 

His  eyes  were  looking  at  hers  too — rather  watchfully. 
He  was  on  his  guard. 

**  I  have  not  the  slightest  reason  to  suppose  that  he  is," 
wns  the  answer,  given  with  some  earnestness,  for  he  was 
glad  to  find  the  question  so  simple. 

"  None?  I  have  not  done  anything  that  he  could  com- 
plain of — to  you  or  to  any  one  ?  " 

"  I  assure  you  I  never  heard  him  breathe  a  word  of  the 
kind.  Besides,"  added  he,  with  a  very  unusual  warmth  in 
his  pale  cheeks,  "  I  wouldn't  listen.  No  man  could  be  such 
a  coward — " 

"  Oh,  pljase  don't  think  that  I  am  angry,"  she  said,  with 
earnest  entreaty.  "  Please  don't  think  I  have  to  complain. 
Oh  no !  But  every  one  knows  what  mischief  is  wrought 
sometimes  by  mistake;  some  one  being  offended  and  not 
giving  a  chance  of  explanation  ;  and — I  was  only  anxious 
to  be  assured  that  I  had  done  nothing  to  vex  him.  His 
going  away  without  seeing  us  seemed  so  strange — yes  ;  and 
also  his  not  coming  of  late  to  the  lodge  ;  and — and  my  papa 
seems  to  be  troubled  about  something ;  so  that  I  became 
anxious  ;  and  I  knew  you  would  tell  me  the  truth,  if  no  one 
else  would.  And  it  is  all  right  then  ?  There  is  no  reason 
to  be  disturbed,  to  I'e  anxious  ?  " 

He  was  disturbed,  at  all  events,  and  sorely  perplexed. 
He  dared  not  meet  her  eyes ;  they  seemed  to  read  him 
through  and  through  when  he  ventured  to  look  up. 

"  Don't  imagine  for  a  moment  that  you  have  anything 
to  reproach  yourself  with — not  for  a  moment,"  he  said. 

"  Has  any  one,  then  ?  " 

*'  Wliy,  ne.  But — but — well,  I  will  be  honest  with  you, 
Yolande  :  there  has  been  a  little  trouble — at  the  Towers. 
The  old  people  are  not  easy  to  please  ;  and — and  Archie  has 
too  much  spirit  to  allow  you  to  be  dragged  into  a  contro- 
versy, you  see ;  and  as  they  don't  get  on  very  well  together, 
T  suppose  he  is  glad  to  get  off  a  few  days  to  Inverness." 

"Ah,  I  understand,"  she  said,  slowly.  "  That  is  some- 
thing to  know.  But  why  did  he  not  tell  me  ?  Does  he 
think  I  am  afraid  of  a  little  trouble  like  that?  Does  he 
think  I  should  be  frightened  ?     Oh  no.     When  I   make  a 


240  YOLANDE. 

promise,  it  is  not  to  break  it.  He  should  have  trusted  me 
more  than  that.  Ah,  I  am  sorry  he  has  to  go  away  oa 
my  account.     Why  did  he  not  speak  ?     It  is  strange." 

And  then  she  regarded  him  with  those  clear,  beautiful, 
contemplatire  eyes  of  hers. 

"  Have  you  told  me  everything  ?  ** 

He  did  not  answer. 

"  No.  There  is  more.  There  is  more  to  account  for 
my  papa's  trouble — for  his  going  away  this  morning.  And 
why  do  I  come  to  you  ? — because  I  know  that  what  you 
know  you  will  tell  to  me.  You  have  been  my  friend  since 
ever  we  came  to  this  place." 

He  could  no.t  withstand  her  appeal ;  and  yet  he  dared 
not  reveal  a  secret  which  was  not  his  own. 

"  Yolande,"  said  he,  and  he  took  her  hand  to  emphasize 
his  words,  "  there  is  more ;  but  it  is  not  I  who  must  tell 
you.  What  I  can  tell  you,  and  what  I  hope  you  will  be- 
lieve, is  that  you  are  in  no  way  the  -cause  of  anything  that 
may  have  happened.  You  have  nothing  to  reproach  your- 
self with.  And  any  little  trouble  there  may  be  will  be  re- 
moved in  time,  no  doubt.  When  you  have  done  your  best, 
what  more  can  you  do  ?     *  The  rest  is  with  the  gods.' " 

It  is  just  possible  that  she  might  have  begged  him  to 
make  a  candid  confession  of  all  that  he  knew — for  she  had 
a  vague  fear  that  she  herself  was  the  cause  of  that  anxiety 
which  she  saw  too  visibly  in  her  father's  looks — but  at  this 
moment  the  dog-cart  drove  up  to  the  front  gate,  and  she 
had  to  go.  She  bade  him,  and  also  Mrs.  Bell,  good-by  al- 
most in  silence  ;  she  went  away  thoughtfully.  And  as  he 
watched  her  disappear  along  the  high-road — the  warm 
westering  light  touching  the  red  gold  of  her  hair — he  was 
thoughtful  too ;  and  his  heart  yearned  toward  her  with  a 
great  pity  ;  and  there  was  not  much  that  this  man  would 
not  have  done  to  save  her  from  the  shadow  that  was  about 
lo  fall  on  her  young  life. 


YOLANDE,  241 


CHAPTER     XXX. 
"dabb  all." 

Uk  could  not  rest,  somehow.  He  went  into  the  labora- 
tory and  looked  vacantly  around  ;  the  objects  there  seemed 
to  have  no  interest  for  him.  Then  he  went  back  to  the 
house — into  the  room  where  he  had  found  her  standing ; 
and  that  had  more  of  a  charm  for  him  ;  the  atmosphere 
still  seemed  to  bear  the  perfume  of  her  presence,  the  music 
of  her  voice  still  seemed  to  hang  in  the  air.  She  had  left 
on  the  table — she  had  forgotten,  indeed — a  couple  of  boards 
enclosing  two  specimens  of  the  Alchemilla.  These  he 
turned  over,  regarding  with  some  attention  the  pretty, 
quaint  French  handwriting  at  the  foot  of  the  page: 
*'  Alchemilla  alpina.  Alpine  Lady^s-mantle,  Allt-^tam-JBa, 
September^  188-."  But  still  his  mind  was  absent ;  he  was 
following  in  imagination  the  girl  herself,  going  awa}^  along 
the  road  there,  alone,  to  meet  the  revelation  that  was  to 
alter  her  life. 

And  was  he  to  stand  by  idle  ?  Was  he  going  to  limit 
himself  to  the  part  he  had  been  asked  to  play — that  of 
mere  message-bearer  ?  Could  he  not  do  something  ?  Was 
he  to  be  dominated  by  the  coward  fear  of  being  called  an 
intermeddler?  He  had  not  pondered  over  all  this  matter 
(with  a  far  deeper  interest  than  he  himself  imagined)  with- 
out result.  He  had  his  own  views,  his  own  remedy;  he 
knew  what  counsel  he  would  give,  if  he  dared  intervene. 
And  why  should  he  not  dare  ?  He  thought  of  the  expres- 
sion of  her  face  as  she  had  said,  with  averted  eyes,  "  Good- 
by ! "  and  then,  why,  then,  a  sudden  impulse  seized  him 
that  somehow  and  at  once  he  must  get  to  AUt-nam-Ba,  and 
that  before  she  should  meet  her  father. 

He  snatched  up  his  hat  and  went  quickly  out  and 
through  the  little  front  garden  into  the  road ;  tliere  he 
paused.  Of  course  he  could  not  follow  her ;  she  must  needs 
see  him  coming  up  the  wide  strath ;  and  in  that  case  what 
excuse  could  he  give  ?  But  what  if  the  shooting  party 
had  not  yet  come  down  from  tlie  hill  ?  Might  ho  not  in- 
tercej^t  them  somewhere  ?     Sometimes,  when  they  had  b'^'O 


242  YOLANDE. 

taking  the  far  tops  in  search  of  a  ptarmigan  or  two,  they 
came  home  late — to  be  scolded  by  the  young  hou8e-mistre88 
for  keeping  dinner  back.  Well,  the  result  of  these  rapid 
calculations  was  tliat  the  next  minute  he  had  set  out  to 
climb,  with  a  swiftness  that  was  yet  far  too  slow  for  the 
eagerness  of  his  wishes,  the  steep  and  rough  and  rugged 
hills  that  stretch  away  up  to  the  neighborhood  of  Lynn 
forest. 

First  it  was  over  peat  bog  and  rock,  then  through  a 
tangled  undergrowth  of  young  birches,  then  up  through 
some  precipitous  gullies,  until  at  last  he  had  gained  the 
top,  and  looked  abroad  over  the  forest — that  wide,desolate, 
silent  wilderness.  Not  a  creature  stirred,  not  even  the 
chirp  of  a  chaffinch  broke  the  oppressive  stillness ;  it 
seemed  a  world  of  death.  But  he  had  no  time  to  take 
note  of  such  matters  ;  besides,  the  solitude  of  a  deer  forest 
was  familiar  to  him.  He  held  along  by  the  hilltop,  some- 
times having  to  descend  into  sharp  little  gullies  and  clamber 
up  again,  until,  far  below  him,  he  came  in  sight  of  Lynn 
Towers  and  the  bridge,  and  the  stream,  and  the  loch ;  and 
onward  still  he  kept  his  way,  until  the  strath  came  in  view, 
with  Allt-nam-Ba,  and  a  pale  blue  smoke  rising  from  the 
chimneys  into  the  still  evening  air.  Probably  Yolande  had 
got  home  by  that  time  ;  perhaps  she  might  be  out  and  walk- 
ing round  the  place,  talking  to  the  dogs  in  the  kennel,  and  so 
forth.  So  he  kept  rather  back  from  the  edge  of  the  hill- 
top, so  that  he  should  not  be  descried,  and  in  due  time  ar- 
rived at  a  point  overlooking  the  junction  of  three  glens, 
down  one  of  which  the  shooting  people,  if  they  had  not 
already  reached  the  lodge,  were  almost  certain  to  come. 

He  looked  and  waited  however,  in  vain,  and  he  was  com- 
ing to  the  conclusion  that  they  must  have  already  passed 
and  gone  on  to  the  lodge,  when  he  fancied  he  saw  some- 
thing move  behind  some  birch  bushes  on  the  hillside 
beyond  the  glen.  Presently  he  made  out  what  it  was — a 
pony  grazing,  and  gradually  coming  more  and  more  into 
view.  Then  he  reflected  that  the  pony  could  only  be  there 
for  one  purpose ;  that  probably  the  attendant  gillie  and  the 
panniers  were  hidden  from  sight  behind  those  birches ; 
and  that,  if  it  were  so,  the  shooting  party  had  not  returned, 
and  were  bound  to  come  back  that  way.  A  very  few 
minutes  of  furtlier  waiting  proved  his  conjecture  to  be 
right,  a  scattered  group  of  people,  with  dogs  in  to  heel,  ap- 
pearing on  the  crest  of  the  hill  opposite.     Then  he   had  no 


YOLANDE.  248 

further  doubt.  Down  this  slope  he  went  at  headlong  speed, 
crossed  the  rushing  burn  by  sprniging  from  boulder  to 
boulder,  scrambled  up  through  the  thick  brushwood  and 
heather  of  the  opposite  banks,  and  very  soon  encountered 
the  returning  party,  who  were  now  watching  the  panniers 
being  put  on  the  pony's  back. 

Now  that  he  had  intercepted  Mr  Winterbourne,  there 
was  no  need  for  hurry.  He  could  take  time  to  recover  his 
breath,  and  also  to  bethink  himself  as  to  how  he  should 
approach  this  difficult  matter ;  and  then,  again,  he  did  not 
wish  those  people  to  imagine  that  he  had  come  on  any 
important  errand.  And  so  the  conversation,  as  the  pony 
w^as  being  loaded,  was  all  about  the  day's  sport.  They 
had  done  very  well,  it  appeared  ;  the  birds  had  not  yet  got 
wild,  and  there  was  no  sign  of  packing ;  they  had  got  a 
couple  of  teal  and  a  golden  plover,  which  was  something  of 
a  variety  ;  also  they  had  had  the  satisfaction  of  seeing  a 
large  eagle — which  Duncan  declared  to  be  a  Golden  Eagle — 
at  unusually  close  quarters. 

Then  they  set  out  for  home ;  Duncan  and  the  gillies 
making  away  for  a  sort  of  ford  by  which  they  could  get 
the  pony  across  the  Dun  Water,  while  the  three  others 
took  a  nearer  way  to  the  lodge  by  getting  down  through  a 
gully  to  the  Corrie-an-eich,  where  there  was  a  swing-bridge 
across  the  burn.  When  they  had  got  to  the  bridge,  Mel- 
ville stopped  him. 

"  I  am  not  going  on  with  you  to  the  lodge,"  said  he. 
"  Mr  Wintebourne,  I  have  seen  your  daughter  this  after- 
noon. She  is  troubled  and  anxious  ;  and  I  thought  I'd 
come  along  and  have  a  word  with  you.  I  hope  you  will 
forgive  me  for  thrusting  myself  in  where  I  may  not  be  wanted 
but — but  it  is  not  always  the  right  thing  to  "  pass  by  on 
the  other  side."  I  couldn't  in  this  case." 

"  I  am  sure  we  are  most  thankful  to  you  for  what  you 
have  done  already,"  Yolande's  father  said,  promptly  ;  and 
then  he  added,  with  a  weary  look  in  his  face,  "and  what  is 
to  be  done  now  I  don't  know.  I  cannot  bring  myself  to  do 
this  that  Leslie  demands.  It  is  too  terrible.  I  look  at  the 
girl — well,  it  does  not  bear  speaking  of." 

*'  Look  here,Winterbourne,"  John  Shortlands  said,  "  I 
am  going  to  leave  you  two  together.  I  will  wait  for  you 
on  the  other  side.  But  I  would  advise  you  to  listen  w^ell 
to  anything  that  Mr  Melville   has  to  say  ;  I  have  my  own 


244  YOLANDE. 

"What  I  want  to  know,  first  of  all,"  Mr  Winterbourne 
fiaid,  with  a  kind  of  despair  in  his  voice,  "  is  whether  you 
are  certain  that  the  Master  will  insist  ?  Why  should  he  ? 
How  could  it  matter  to  him  ?  I  thought  we  had  done  every- 
thing when  we  let  him  know.  Why  should  Yolande  know? 
Why  make  her  miserable  to  no  end  ?  Look  what  has  been 
done  to  keep  this  knowledge  from  her  all  through  these 
years  ;  and  you  can  see  the  result  in  the  gayety  of  her 
heart.  Would  she  have  been  like  that  if  she  had  known — 
if  she  had  always  been  thinking  of  one  who  ought  to  be  near 
her,  and  perhaps  blaming  herself  for  holding  aloof  from 
her  ?  She  would  have  been  quite  different  ;  she  would  have 
been  old  in  sadness  by  this  time  ;  whereas  she  has  never; 
known  what  a  care  was.  Mr.  Melville,  you  are  his  friend 
you  know  him  better  than  any  of  us.  Don't  you  think  there 
is  some  chance  of  reasoning  with  him,  and  inducing  him  to 
forego  this  demand  ?    It  seems  so  hard." 

The  suffering  that  this  man  was  undergoing  was  terrible. 
His  question  formed  almost  a  cry  of  entreaty,  and  Jack 
Melville  could  scarcely  bring  himself  to  answer  in  what  he 
well  knew  to  be  the  truth. 

"  I  cannot  deceive  you,"  he  said,  after  a  second. 
"  There  is  no  doubt  that  Leslie's  mind  is  made  up  on  the 
point.  When  I  undertook  to  carry  his  message,  he  more 
than  once  repeated  his  clear  decision — " 

"  But  why  ?  What  end  will  it  serve  ?  How  could  it 
matter  to  them — living  away  from  London?  How  could 
they  be  harmed  ?  " 

"  Mr.  Winterbourne,"  said  the  other,  with  something  of  a 
clear  emphasis,  "when  I  reported  Leslie's  decision  to  Mr. 
Shoj-tlands,  as  I  was  asked  to  do,  I  refused  to  defend  it — or  to 
attack  it,  for  that  matter — and  J  would  rather  not  do  so  now. 
What  I  might  think  right  in  the  same  case,  what  you 
might  think  right,  does  not  much  matter.  I  told  Mr.  Short- 
lands  that  perhaps  we  did  not  kuow  everything  that  might 
lead  to  such  a  decision  ;  Leslie  has  not  been  on  good  terms 
with  his  father  and  aunt,  and  lie  thinks  he  is  being  badly 
used.     There  may  be  other  things  ;  I  do  not  know." 

*'  And  how  do  we  know  that  it  will  suffice  ?  "  the  other 
Baid.  "  How  do  we  know  that  it  will  satisfy  him  and  his 
people  ?  Are  we  to  inflict  all  this  pain  and  sorrow  on  the 
girl,  and  then  wait  to  see   whether  that  is  enough?  " 

"  It  is  not  what  I  would  do,"  said  Jack  Melville,  who 
had  not  come  here  for  nothing. 


4 


YOLANDE.  246 

"  "What  would  you  do,  then  ?  Can  you  suggest  any. 
thing  ?"  her  father  said,  eagerly.  '*  Ah,  you  little  know- 
how  we  should  value  any  one  who  could  remove  this  thing 
from  us  !" 

''  What  I  would  do  ?  Well,  I  will  tell  you.  I  would  go 
to  that  girl,  and  I  would  see  how  much  of  the  woman  is  in 
lier  ;  I  think  you  will  find  enough  ;  I  would  say  to  her, 
"  There  is  your  mother  ;  that  is  the  condition  she  has  sunk 
into  through  those  accursed  drugs.  Every  means  has 
been  tried  to  save  her  without  avail — every  means  save 
one.  It  is  for  you  to  go  to  her — you  yourself — alone.  Who 
knows  what  resurrection  of  will  and  purpose  may  not  arise 
within  her  when  it  is  her  own  daughter  who  stands  before 
her  and  appeals  to  her — when  it  is  her  own  daughter  who 
will  be  by  her  side  during  the  long  struggle  ?  That  is 
your  duty  as  a  daughter  :  will  you  do  it?"  If  I  know  the 
girl,  you  will  not  have  to  say  more." 

The  wretched  man  opposite  seemed  almost  to  recoil 
from  him  in  his  dismay.  "  Good  God  !"  he  muttered,  and 
there  was  a  sort  of  blank,  vague  terror  in  his  face,  Melville 
stood  silent  and  calm,  awaiting  an  answer. 

"  It  is  the  suggestion  of  a  devil,"  said  this  man,  who 
was  quite  aghast,  and  seemed  scarcely  to  comprehend  the 
whole  thing  just  yet,  "  or  else  of  an  angel ;  why — " 

"  It  is  the  suggestion  neither  of  a  devil  nor  an  angel," 
said  Melville,  calmly,  "  but  of  a  man  who  has  read  a  few 
medical  books." 

The  other,  with  the  half  horror-stricken  look  in  his.  eyes, 
seemed  to  be  thinking  hard  of  all  that  might  happen  ;  and 
his  two  hands  clasped  together  over  the  muzzle  of  his  gun, 
which  was  resting  on  the  ground,  were  trembling.  ^ 

"  Oh,  it  is  impossible — impossible  !"  he  cried  at  length 
"It  is  inhuman.  You  have  not  thought  of  it  sufficiently. 
My  girl  to  go  through  that  I — have  you  considered  wliat 
you  are  proposing  to  subject  her  to  ?" 

"  I  have  considered,"  Jack  Melville  said  (perhaps  with  a 
passing  qualm ;  for  there  w^as  a  pathetic  cry  in  this  man's 
voice).  "  And  I  have  thought  of  it  sufiiciently,  I  hope.  I 
would  not  have  dared  to  make  the  suggestion  without  the 
most  anxious  consideration." 

"  And  you  would  subject  Yolande  to  that  f  " 

"  No,"  said  the  other,  "I  would  not.     I  would    not  sub- 

i'ect  her  to  anything  ;  I  would  put  the  case  before  her,  and  I 
:now  what  her  own  answer   would   be.     I  don't  think  anj 


246  YOLANDE. 

one  would  have  to  use  prayers  and  entreaties.  I  don*t 
think  it  would  be  necessary  to  try  much  persuasion.  I  say 
this — put  the  case  before  her,  and  I  will  stake  my  head  I 
can  tell  what  her  answer  will  be — what  her  decision  will 
be — yes,  and  before  you  have  finished  your  story !" 

**  And  to  go  alone — " 

"  She  will  not  be  afraid." 

He  seemed  to  have  a  very  prof'^nnd  conviction  of  his 
knowledge  of  this  girl's  nature  ;  and  there  was  a  kind  of 
pride  in  the  way  he  spoke. 

"  But  why  alone  ?  "  pleaded  the  father — he  seemed  to 
be  imagining  all  kinds  of  things  with  those  haggard  eyes. 

"  I  would  not  have  the  mental  shock  lessened  by  the 
presence  of  any  one.  I  would  have  no  possible  suspicion 
of  a  trap,  a  bait,  a  temptation.  I  would  have  it  between 
these  two  :  the  daughter's  appeal  to  her  mother.  I  am  not 
afraid  of  the  result." 

"  She  could  not.  My  girl  to  go  away  by  herself ! — she 
could  not ;  it  is  too  terrible." 

"  Try  her." 

"  She  has  never  travelled  alone.  Why,  even  to  go  to 
London  by  herself — " 

*'  Oh,  but  that  has  nothing  to  do  with  it.  That  is  not 
what  I  mean  at  all.  As  for  that,  her  maid  would  go  with 
her  as  a  matter  of  course  ;  and  Mr.  Shorthands  might  see  her 
as  far  as  London  if  he  is  going  south  shortly,  as  I  hear. 
She  could  put  up  at  one  or  other  of  the  hotels  that  she  has 
already  stayed  at  with  you.  Then  you  would  give  her  the 
address  and  leave  the  rest  to  her.^^ 

"  You  have  been  thinking  over  this,  Mr.  Winterbourne 
said.  "  I  have  not.  I  am  rather  bewildered  about  it." 
Shall  we  ask  Shortlands  ?  " 

"  If  you  wish.  But  first  let  me  explain,  Mr.  Winter- 
bourne.  As  1  understand,  several  arrangements  have  been 
made  with  this  poor  woman — only,  unhappily,  to  be  broken 
by  her.  Well,  now,  why  I  want  Yolande  to  go  alone — if 
you  think  the  experiment  should  be  tried  at  all — is  to 
prevent  suspicion  in  the  poor  woman's  mind.  I  would  have 
no  third  person.  It  should  be  a  matter  between  the  two 
i»romen  themselves  :  and  Yolande  must  insist  on  seeing  her 
mother  alone." 

"  Insist !  Yes,  and  insist  with  two  such  wretches  as 
those  Romfords !  Why,  the  man  might  insult  her ;  h« 
might  lay  hands  on  her,  and  force  her  out  of  the  house." 


YOLANDE.  247 

Melville's  pale,  dark  face  grew  dark  at  this,  and  his  eyes 
had  a  sudden,  sharp  fire  in  them. 

"  She  must  have  a  policeman  waiting  outside,"  he  said, 
curtly.  "  And  her  maid  must  go  inside  with  her,  but  not 
necessarily  into  the  room." 

"  And  then,  "  said  Mr.  Winterbourne,  who  was  appar- 
ently picturing  all  this  before  his  mind  ;  "  supposing  she 
were  to  get  her  mother  away  with  her,  what  then  ?  " 

"  She  would  take  her  back  to  the  hotel.  Siie  must  have 
a  private  sitting-room,  of  course.  Then,  in  two  or  three 
days'  time,  when  she  had  got  the  necessary  travelling  things 
for  her  mother,  she  would  take  her  down  to  some  quiet  sea- 
side place — Eastbourne,  or  Bournemouth,  or  some  such 
place — and  get  rooms  there.  The  two  women  would  get  to 
know  each  other  that  way  ;  Yolande  would  aways  be  with 
her  ;  her  constant  society  would  be  her  mother's  safeguard." 

"  You  have  thought  of  everything — you  have  thought  of 
everything,"  the  father  murmured.  "  Well,  let  us  see  what 
Shortlands  says.  It  is  a  terrible  risk.  I  am  not  hopeful 
myself.  The  thing  is,  is  it  fair  to  bring  all  this  distress  and 
suffering  on  the  girl  on  such  a  remote  chance  ?  " 

'*  You  must  judge  of  tliat,"  said  Melville.  "  You  asked 
me  what  I  would  do.     I  have  told  you." 

Mr.  Winterbourne  was  about  to  step  on  to  the  bridge, 
across  which  only  one  could  go  at  a  time  ;  but  he  suddenly 
turned  back,  and  said,  with  some  earnest-  emphasis,  to  the 
younger  man : 

*'  Do  not  imagine  that  because  I  hesitate  I  think  any  the 
less  of  your  thoughtf  ulness.  Not  many  would  have  done  as 
much.  Whatever  happens,  I  know  what  your  intentions 
were  towards  us."  He  took  Melville's  hand  for  a  moment, 
and  pressed  it.  "  And  I  thank  you  for  her  sake  and  for  my 
own.     May  God  bless  you  !  " 

When  they  got  to  the  otlier  side  they  found  John  Short- 
lands  seated  on  a  boulder  of  granite,  smoking  a  cigar.  He 
was  not  much  startled  by  this  proposal,  for  Melville  had 
mentioned  something  of  the  kind  to  him,  in  an  interjectional 
gort  of  fashion,  some  time  before,  and  he  had  given  it  a  brief 
but  rather  unfavorable  consideration.  Now,  as  they  talked 
the  matter  over,  it  appeared  that  he  stood  about  midway  be- 
tween these  two,  having  neither  the  eager  enthusiasm  of  Jack 
Melville  nor  yet  the  utter  hopelessness  of  his  friend  Winter- 
bourne. 

"  If  you  think  It  is  worth  trying,  try  it,"  said  he,  coolly. 


248  YOLANDE. 

**  It  can't  do  much  harm.  If  Yolande  is  to  know,  she  may 
as  well  know  to  some  end.  Other  things  have  been  tried, 
and  failed  ;  this  might  not.  The  shock  might  bring  her  to 
her  senses.  Anyhow,  don't  you  see,  if  you  once  tell  Yo- 
lande all  about  it,  I  rather  fancy  she  will  be  dissatisiSed 
until  she  has  made  a  trial.'' 

"  That  is  what  I  am  certain  of,  "  Melville  said,  quickly^ 
"  I  would  contentedly  leave  it  to  herself.  Only  the  girl  must 
have  some  guidance.  " 

"  Surely,  surely,"  said  John  Shortlands.  "  I  consider 
your  plan  very  carefully  laid  out — if  Winterbourne  will  risk 
it.  The  only  other  way  is  to  leave  Yolande  in  her  present 
happy  ignorance,  and  tell  the  Master  of  Lynn,  and  his 
father,  and  his  aunt,  and  whatever  other  relations  he  has, 
to  go  to  the  devil." 

"  Shortlands,"  said  Mr.  Winterbourne,  angrily,  "  this  is 
a- serious  thing;  it  is  not  to  be  settled  in  your  free  and  easy 
way.  I  suppose  you  wouldn't  mind  bringing  on  Yolande 
the  mortification  of  being  jilted  ?  How  could  you  explain 
to  her  ?  She  would  be  left — without  a  word.  And  I  fear 
she  is  beginning  to  be  anxious  already.  Poor  child,  which- 
ever way  it  goes,  she  will  have  enough  to  suffer.'* 

"  I  should  not  mind  so  much  which  way  it  goes,  "  said 
John  Shortlands,  bluntly,  "  if  only  somebody  would  take 
the  Master  of  Lynn  by  the  scruff  of  the  neck,  and  oblige 
me  by  kicking  him  from  AUt-nam-Ba  bridge  to  Foyers  pier." 

**  Come,  come,"  said  Melville  (though  he  was  by  much 
the  youngest  of  these  three),"  the  less  said  in  that  way 
the  better.  What  you  want  is  to  make  the  best  of  things, 
not  to  stir  up  ill-will.  For  my  part  I  regard  Miss  Winter- 
bourne's  engagement  to  Mr.  Leslie  as  a  secondary  matter 
— at  this  present  moment  I  consider  her  first  duty  is  to 
her  mother ;  and  I  am  pretty  sure  you  will  find  that  will  be 
her  opinion  when  you  put  the  facts  of  the  case  before  her. 
Yes  ;  I  am  pretty  certain  of  that." 

"  And  who  would  undertake  to  tell  her?"  her  father 
said,  "  who  could  face  the  suffering,  the  shame,  you  would 
see  in  her  eyes  ?  Who  would  dare  to  suggest  to  her  that  she, 
so  tenderly  cared  for  all  her  life,  should  go  away  and  en- 
counter these  horrors  ?  " 

There  was  silence. 

"  If  it  comes  to  that,  "  said  Melville,  slowly,  «  I  will  do 
it.  If  you  think  it  right — if  it  will  give  you  pain  to  speak  to 
her — let  me  speak  to  her." 


YOLANDE,  .         249 

"You  ?  "  said  her  father.  "  Why  should  you  undertake 
what  cannot  but  be  a  dreadful  task?  Why  should  you  have 
lo  bear  that?  " 

"  Oh,"  said  he,  "  my  share  in  the  common  trouble 
would  be  slight.  Besides,  I  have  not  many  friends;  and 
when  one  has  the  chance  of  lending  a  hand,  don't  you  un- 
derstand, it  is  a  kind  of  gratification.  I  know  it  will  not 
be  pleasant,  except  for  one  thing-I  am  looking  forward  to 
her  answer ;  and  I  know  what  it  will  be.  " 

"  But,  really,"  her  father  said,  with  some  hesitation,  "  is 
it  fair  we  should  put  this  on  you  ?  It  is  a  great  sacrifice  to 
ask  from  one  who  has  been  so  recently  our  friend.  You 
have  seen  her-you  have  seen  how  light-hearted  she  is ;  and 
to  ask  any  one  to  go  and  take  away  the  happy  carelessness 
of  her  life  from  her — " 

"  Yes,  it  will  make  a  change,  "  said  Melville,  thought- 
fully. "  I  know  that.  She  will  be  no  longer  a  girl.  She 
will  be  a  woman.  " 

"  At  all  events,  Winterbourne,  "  John  Shortland^ 
broke  in,  "  what  I  said  before,  I  say  now — you  are  the  last 
man  to  undertake  such  a  job.  You'd  frighten  the  girl  out 
of  her  senses.  It's  bad  enough  as  it  is;  and  it'll  have  to  be 
told  her  by  degrees.  I  would  have  a  try  myself,  but  I  might 
say  something  about  the  cause  of  her  having  to  be  told, 
and  thai  would  only  make  mischief.  If  I  said  anything 
about  your  friend  Leslie,  Mr.  Melville,  I  ask  you  to  forget 
it.  No  use  making  rows.*  And  I  say,  if  Winterbourne  de- 
cides on  taking  your  way  out  of  this  troublous  business, 
and  if  you  don't  mind  doing  what  you  offered  to  do,  you 
could  not  find  a  better  time  than  next  Tuesday,  if  that  will 
be  convenient  for  you,  for  we  shall  be  all  away  at  the  far 
tops  that  day,  and  I  daresay,  it  will  take  you  sometime  to 
break  the  news  gently." 

"  I  am  quite  at  your  service,  either  on  Tuesday  or  any 
other  day,  whenever  you  let  me  know  what  you  have  de- 
cided." 

He  would  not  go  on  to  the  house  with  them,  despite  all 
their  solicitations  ;  on  the  other  hand,  he  begged  them  not 
to  say  to  Yolande  that  they  had  seen  him.  So  they  went 
on  their  way  down  to  the  little  lodge  and  its  dependencies, 
while  he  went  back  and  over  the  hills. 

*'  He's  a fine  fellow  that,  and  no  mistake,  "  said  the 

plain  spoken  John  Shortlands.     "  There  is  a  sort  of   broad 


250  YOLANDE. 

human  nature  about   him.     And  I  should    think,  Winter- 
bourne,  you  were  very  much  obliged  to  him." 

"  Obliged  ?  "  said  Yolande's  father.     ''  It  is  scarcely  the 
word. " 


CHAPTER  XXXI. 

CONTRITION. 


Mrs.  Graham,  attended  by  her  maid,  and  dressed  in  one 
of  the  most  striking  of  her  costumes,  was  slowly  pacing  up 
and  down  the  loud-echoing  railway  station  at  Inverness. 
This  was  what  her  brother  used  spitefully  to  call  her  plat- 
form parade ;  but  on  this  occasion,  at  all  events,  she  had  no 
concern  about  what  effect,  if  any,  her  undoubtedly  distin- 
guished appearance  might  produce.  She  was  obviously 
deeply  preoccupied.  Several  times  she  stopped  at  the  book- 
stall, and  absently  glanced  at  the  titles  of  the  various  jour- 
nals ;  and,  indeed,  when  at  length  she  purchased  one  or  two 
papers,  she  forgot  to  take  up  the  change,  and  had  to  be 
called  back  by  the  pretty  young  lady  behind  the  counter. 
Then  she  glanced  at  the  clock,  handed  the  newspapers  to 
her  maid  and  bade  her  wait  there  for  a  few  minutes,  and 
forwith  entered  the  Station  Hotel. 

She  passed  along  the  corridor,  and  went  into  the  draw- 
ing-room. From  that  room  slie  had  a  full  view  of  the 
general  reading-room,  whicli  forms  the  centre  of  the  build- 
ing, and  is  lit  from  the  roof;  and  the  first  glance  showed 
lier  the  person  of  whom  she  was  in  search.  The  Master  of 
Lynn,  tlie  sole  occupant  of  the  place,  was  lying  back  in  a 
cane-bottbmed  rocking-chair,  turning  over  the  pages  of 
Punch. 

"  So  I  have  found  you  at  last.  What  are  you  doing 
here?'*  she  said,  rather  sharply. 

He  looked  up.  "  I  might  ask  the  same  question  of 
you,"  he  answered,  with  much  coolness. 

"  You  know  well  enough.     It  is  not  for  nothing  I  have 
come  all  the  way  from  Investroy." 

"  You  must  have  got  up  early,"  he  remarked. 

•*  I  want  to  kr  ow  "what  you  are  doing  here," 


YOLANDE,  2ol 

**  I  am  reading  Punch."" 

**  Yes,"  said  she,  with  some  bitterness,  "  and  I  suppose 
yo»r  chief  occupation  is  playing  billiards  all  day  long  with 
commerical  travellers." 

"  One  might  be  worse  employed." 

**  Archie,  let  us  have  none  of  this  nonsense.  What  do 
you  mean  to  do  ?     Why  don't  you  answer  my  letters  ?  " 

**  Because  you  make  too  much  of  a  fuss.  Because  you 
are  too  portentous.  Now  I  like  a  quiet  life.  That  is  why 
I  am  here ;  I  came  here  to  have  a  little  peace." 

"  Well,  I  don't  understand  you  at  all,"  his  sister  said,  in 
a  hopeless  kind  of  way.  "  I  could  understand  it  better  if 
you  were  one  of  those  young  men  who  are  attracted  by 
every  pretty  face  they  see,  and  are  always  in  a  simmering 
condition  of  love-making.  But  you  are  not  like  that. 
And  I  thought  you  were  proud  to  think  of  Yolande  as  your 
future  wife.  I  can  remember  one  day  on  board  the  daha- 
beeyah.  You  were  anxious  enough  then.  What  has 
changed  you  ?" 

"  I  do  not  know  that  I  am  changed,"  said  he,  either  with 
indifference  or  an  affectation  of  indifference. 

"  Is  Shena  Van  in  Inverness  ? "  said  Mrs.  Graham, 
sharply. 

"  I  suppose  Miss  Stewart  has  as  good  a  right  to  be  in 
Inverness  as  anybody  else,"  he  said,  formally. 

**  Do  you  mean  to  say  you  don't  know  whether  she  is  in 
Inverness  or  not  ?  " 

**  I  did  not  say  nothing  of  the  kind." 

"  Have  you  spoken  to  her  ?  " 

**  Don't  keep  on  bothering,"  he  said,  impatiently. 
"  Miss  Stewart  is  in  Inverness ;  and  if  you  want  to  know, 
I  have  not  spoken  a  single  word  to  her.     Is  that  enough  ?  " 

*'  Why  are  you  here,  then  ?     What  are  you  going  to 

**  Nothing." 

"  Really  this  is  too  bad,  Archie,"  his  sister  said,  in  deep 
vexation.  **  You  are  throwing  away  the  best  prospects  a 
young  man  ever  had,  and  all  for  what  ?    For  temper !  " 

"I  don't  call  it  temper  at  all,"  said  he;  "I  call  it  self- 
respect.  I  have  told  you  already  that  I  would  not  degrade 
Yolande  Winterbourne  so  far  as  to  plead  for  her  being  re- 
ceived by  my  family.     A  pretty  idea  !  " 

*'  There  would  have  been  no  necessity  to  plead  if  only 
you  had  exercised  a  little  patience  and  tact  and  judgment. 


*)52  YOLANDE. 

And  surely  it  is  not  too  late  jet.  Just  think  how  much 
pleasanter  it  would  be  for  you  nnd  for  all  of  us  in  tlie  future 
if  you  were  rather  more  on  an  equal  footing  with  Jim — I 
mean  as  regards  money.  I  don't  see  why  you  shouldn't 
have  your  clothes  made  at  Poole's,  as  Jim  has.  Why 
shouldn't  you  have  chamois-leather  pockets  in  your  over- 
coat as  well  as  he  ?  '* 

**  I  can  do  without  chamois-leather  pockets,"  he  ans- 
wered. 

"Very  well,"  said  she,  suddenly  changing  the  mo^e  of 
her  attack;  "but  what  you  cannot  do  without  is  the  repu- 
tation of  having  acted  as  a  gentleman.  You  are  bound  in 
honor  to  keep  faith  with  Yolande  Winterbourne." 

*'  I  am  bound  in  honor  not  to  allow  her  to  subject  her- 
self to  insult,"  he  retorted. 

"  Oh,  there  will  be  nothing  of  the  kind  !  "  his  sister  ex- 
claimed.    "'How  can  you  be  so  unreasonable?" 

"  You  don't  know  the  worst  of  it,"  said  he,  gloomily. 
"I  only  got  to  know  the  other  day.  Yolande's  mother  is 
alive — an  opium  drinker.  Off  her  head  at  times  ;  kicks  up 
rows  in  the  streets;  and  they  are  helpless,  because  they 
have  all  been  in  this  conspiracy  to  keep  it  back  from  Yo- 
lande—" 

"  You  don't  mean  that,  Archie  !  "  his  sister  exclaimed, 
looking  very  grave. 

*'I  do,  though.  And,  you  know,  his  lordship  might  in 
-time  be  got 'to  overlook  the  Radical  papa,  but  a  mamma 
who  might  at  any  moment  figure  in  a  police  court — I  think 
not  even  you  could  get  him  to  stand  that." 

"  But,  Archie,  this  is  dreadful !  "  Mrs.  Graham  exclaimed 
again. 

*'  1  daresay  it  is.     It  is  the  fact,  however." 

"  And  that  is  why  he  was  so  anxious  to  get  Yolande  away 
from  London,"  she  said,  thoughtfully.  "  Poor  man,  what  a 
terrible  life  to  lead  !  " 

She  was  silent  for  some  time;  she  was  reading  the  story 
more  clearly  now — his  continual  travelling  with  Yolande, 
his  liking  for  long  voyages,  his  wish  that  the  girl  should  live 
in  the  Highlands  after  her  marriage.  And  perhaps,  also, 
his  warm  and  obvious  opproval  of  that  marriage — she  knew 
that  fathers  with  only  daughters  were  not  always  so  com- 
plaisant. 

Two  or  three  strangers  came  into  the  reading-room. 


YOLANDE.  258 

"  Archie,"  said  she,  waking  up  from  a  reverie,  "  let  ua 
go  out  for  a  stroll.     I  must  think  over  this." 

He  went  and  fetched  his  hat  and  stick ;  and  the  maid 
having  been  directed  to  go  into  the  hotel  and  wait  her  mis- 
tress's return,  the  brother  and  sister  went  outside  and  pro- 
ceeded to  walk  leisurely  through  the  bright  ^and  cheerful 
little  town  in  the  direction  of  the  harbor. 

"  What  is  your  own  view  of  the  matter?  "  she  said  at 
length,  and  somewhat  cautiously. 

*'  Oh,  my  position  is  perfectly  clear.  I  can  have  noth- 
ing to  do  with  any  such  system  of  secrecy  and  terrorism. 
I  told  Jack  Melville  that  when  he  came  as  a  sort  of  ambas- 
sador. I  said  I  would  on  no  account  whatever  subject  my- 
self to  such  unnecessary  risks  and  anxieties.  My  conten- 
tion was  that,  first  of  all,  the  whole  truth  should  be  told  to 
Yoland  ;  then  if  that  woman  keeps  quiet,  good  and  well ;  if 
not,  we  can  appeal  to  the  law  and  have  her  forcibly  con- 
fined. There  is  nothing  more  simple  ;  and  I  daresay  it 
could  be  kept  out  of  the  papers.  But  then,  you  see,  my 
dear  Mrs.  Polly,  there  is  also  the  possibility  that  it  might 
get  into  the  papers ;  and  if  you  add  on  this  little  possibility 
to  what  his  lordship  already  thinks  about  the  whole  affair, 
you  may  guess  what  use  all  your  beautiful  persuasion  and 
tact  aud  conciliation  would  be." 

''  I  don't  see,"  said  Mrs.  Graham,  slowly,  "  why  papa 
should  know  anything  about  it.  It  does  not  concern  him. 
Many  families  have  ne'er-do-well  or  disreputable  members, 
and  simply  nothing  is  said  about  them,  and  they  are  sup- 
posed not  to  exist.  Friends  of  the  family  ignore  chem ; 
they  are  simply  not  mentioned,  until  in  time  they  are  for- 
gotten altogether ;  it  is  as  if  they  did  not  exist.  I  don't 
see  why  papa  should  be  told  anything  about  it." 

"  Oh,  I  am  for  having  everything  straightforward,"  said 
he.  *'  I  don't  wish  to  have  anything  thrown  in  my  teeth 
afterward.  But  the  point  isn't  worth  discussing  in  the 
present  state  of  his  lordship's  temper,  and  it  isn't  likely  to 
be  so  long  as  that  old  cat  is  at  his  elbow.  Well,  now,  that 
is  what  Mr.  Winterbourne  might  fairly  say.  He  might  say 
we  had  no  right  to  object  to  his  having  a  half-maniac  wife 
in  his  family  so  long  as  we  had  an  entirely  maniac  aunt — 
who  is  also  a  cantankerous  old  beast — in  ours." 

'*  Archie,  1  must  ask  you  to  be  more  decent  in  your  lan- 
uage !  "  his  sister  said,  angrily.  "  Is  that  the  way  th« 
5'oung  men  talk  at  Balliol  now  ? 


254  YOLANDE. 

"  I  gaess  it's  the  way  thay  talk  everywhere  when  they 
happen  to  have  the  luxury  of  having  an  Aunt  Colquhoun 
as  a  relative." 

"  My  dear  Master,  you  won't  go  very  far  to  put  matters 
straight  if  you  continue  in  that  mood." 

"  Am  I  anxious  to  go  far  to  put  matters  straight  ?  " 

"  You  ought  to  be — for  the  sake  of  Miss  Winterbouire," 
said  his  sister,  stiffly. 

"  No,"  lie  answered ;  "  it  is  they  who  ought  to  be — for 
the  sake  of  Lynn." 

Well,  she  saw  there  was  not  much  to  be  done  with  him 
just  then ;  and,  indeed,  there  was  something  in  what  he 
had  told  her  that  wanted  thinking  over.  But  in  the  mean 
time  she  was  greatly  relieved  to  find  that  he  had  not  (  as 
she  had  suspected)  resumed  any  kind  of  relations  with  Shena 
Van,  and  she  was  anxious  above  all  things  to  get  him  away 
from  Inverness. 

"  When  are  you  going  back  to  Lynn  ?  "  she  asked. 

"I  don't  know,"  he  answered,  carelessly. 

'*  Now  do  be  sensible,  Archie,  and  go  down  with  me  in 
this  afternoon's  steamer.  All  this  trouble  will  be  removed 
in  good  time,  and  you  need  not  make  the  operation  unneces- 
sarily difficult.  I  am  going  down  to  Fort  Augustus  by  the 
three-o'clock  boat ;  you  can  come  with  me  as  far  as  Foyers." 

"Oh,  I  don't  mind,"  he  said.  "  1  have  had  a  little  peace 
and  quiet ;  I  can  afford  to  go  back  to  the  menagerie.  Only 
there  won't  be  anybody  to  meet  me  at  Foyers." 

"  You  can  get  a  dog-cart  from  Mrs.  Elder,"  his  sister 
said.  "  And  if  you  were  very  nice  you  would  take  me  back 
to  your  hotel  now  and  give  me  some  lunch,  for  I  am  fright- 
fully hungry.  Do  you  know  at  what  hour  I  had  to  get  up 
in  order  to  catch  the  boat  at  Fort  Augustus?" 

*'I  don't  see  why  you  did  it." 

"  No,  perhaps  not.  But  Avhen  you  are  as  old  as  I  am 
you  will  see  with  different  eyes.  You  will  see  what  chances 
you  had  at  this  moment,  that  you  seem  willing  to  let  slip 
through  your  fingers.  And  why  ? — Because  you  have  not 
enough  patience  to  withstand  a  little  opposition.  But  you 
knew  perfectly  well  when  you  asked  Yoland  Winterbourae 
to  marry  you,  on  board  the  dahabeeynh,  that  papa  might 
very  probably  have  objections,  and  you  took  the  risk ;  aP'^ 
now  when  you  find  there  are  objections  and  oppositioK  i 
don't  think  it  is  quite  fair  for  you  to  throw  the  whole  thing 
up,  and  leave  the  girl  deserted  and  every  one  disappointed. 


YOLANDE.  255 

And  it  all  depends  on  yourself.  You  have  only  to  be 
patient  and  conciliatory ;  when  they  see  that  you  are  not 
to  be  affected  by  their  opposition  they  will  give  in,  in  time. 
And  as  soon  as  the  people  go  away  from  Inverstroy  I  will 
come  over  and  help  yo  u." 

He  said  nothing.  So  they  went  back  and  had  lunch  at 
the  hotel;  and  in  due  time,  Mrs.  Graham's  maid  acompany- 
ing,  they  drove  along  to  the  canal,  and  got  on  board  the 
little  steamer.  They  had  a  beautiful  sail  down  Loch  Ness 
on  this  still,  golden  afternoon.  But  perhaps  the  pictu- 
resqueness  of  the  scenery  was  a  trifle  familiar  to  them  ;  in 
fact,  they  regarded  the  noble  loch  mostly  as  an  excellent  high- 
way for  the  easy  transference  of  casks  and  hampers  from 
Inverness,  and  their  chief  impression  of  the  famous  falls  of 
Foyers  was  as  to  the  height  of  the  hill*that  their  horses  had 
to  climb  in  going  and  coming  between  Foyers  and  Lynn. 

As  they  were  slowly  steaming  in  to  Foyer's  pier  pretty 
Mrs.  Graham  said, 

**  I  wonder  if  that  can  be  Yolande  herself  in  that  dog- 
cart? Yes,  it  is;  that  is  her  white  Rubens  hat.  Lucky 
for  you,  Master ;  if  she  gives  you  a  lift,  it  will  save  you 
hiring." 

"I  don't  think,"  said  he,  with  a  faint  touch  of  scorn, 
"that  the  mutual  excess  of  courtesy  which  has  been  inter- 
changed between  Lynn  Towers  and  Allt-nam-Ba  would 
warrant  me  in  accepting  such  a  favor.  But  the  cat  bows 
when  she  and  Yolande  pass.  Oh  yes,  she  does  as  much  as 
that." 

"And  she  will  do  a  little  more  in  time,  if  only  you  are 
reasonable,"  said  his  sister,  who  still  hoped  that  all  would 
be  well. 

Young  Leslie  had  merely  a  hand-bag  with  him.  When  he 
left  the  steamer  he  walked  along  the  pier  by  himself  until 
he  reached  the  road,  and  there  he  found  Yolande  seated  in 
the  dog-cart.  He  went  up  and  shook  hands  with  her  and 
she  seemed  very  pleased  to  see  him. 

"You  are  going  to  Lynn  ?     Shall  I  drive  you  out?" 

"  No,  thank  you,"  said  he,  somewhat  stiffly.  "  I  will 
not  trouble  you.     I  can  get  a  trap  at  the  hotel." 

She  looked  surprised,  and  then,  perhaps,  a  trifle  reserved. 

"  Oh,  very  well,"  said  she,  with  calm  politeness.  "  The 
hotel  carriages  have  more  room  than  this  little  one.  Good- 
by." 

Then  it  suddenly  occurred  to  him  that  he  had  no  quarrel 


256  YOLANDE. 

with  her.  She  might  be  the  indirect  cause  of  all  this  trouble 
Jind  confusion  that  had  befallen  him,  but  she  was  certainly 
not  the  direct  cause.  She  was  iji  absolute  ignorance  of  it, 
in  fact.  And  so  he  lingered  for  a  second,  and  then  he  said, 
looking  up, 

"  You  have  no  one  coming  by  the  steamer?  " 

"  Oh  no,"  she  said  ;  but  she  did  not  renew  the  invitation  ; 
indeed,  there  was  just  a  touch  of  coldness  in  her  manner. 

"  If  I  thought  1  should  not  overload  tbe  dog-cart,"  said 
lie,  rather  shamefacedly,  "  I  would  beg  of  you' to  give  me  a 
seat.  I  understand  the  stag's  head  has  come  down  by  this 
stenmer.     I  saw  it  at  Macleay's  this  morning." 

"  It  is  that  I  have  come  in  for — that  only,"  she  said. 
"  There  is  plenty  of  room,  if  you  wish." 

So  without  more  ado  he  put  his  hand-bag  into  the  dog- 
cart, behind,  and  there  also  was  desposited  the  stag's  head 
that  Sandy  was  now  bringing  along  from  the  steamer. 
Then,  when  the  lad  had  gone  to  the  horse's  head,  Yolande 
got  down,  for  she  always  walked  tliis  steep  hill,  whether 
going  or  coming,  and  of  course  no  men-folk  could  remain 
in  the  vehicle  when  she  was  on  foot.  So  she  and  the 
Master  now  set  out  together. 

"  I  hope  they  have  been  having  good  sport  at  AUt-nara- 
Ba,"  he  said. 

"  Oh  yes." 

It  was  clear  that  his  unaccountable  refusal  of  her  invita- 
tion had  surprised  her,  and  her  manner  was  distinctly 
reserved.  Seeing  that,  he  took  the  more  pains  to  please 
her. 

"  Macleay  has  done  the  stag's  head-  very  well,"  said  he 
"  and  I  have  no  doubt  Mr.  Shortlands  will  be  proud  of  it 
Pity  it  isn't  a  royal ;  but  still  it  is  a  good  head.  It  is 
curious  how  people's  ideas  change  as  they  goon  preserving 
stag's  heads.  At  first  it  is  everything  they  shoot,  no  matter 
what,  and  every  head  must  be  stuffed.  Then  they  begin  to 
find  that  expensive,  and  they  take  to  boiling  the  heads, 
keeping  only  the  skull  and  the  horns.  Then  they  begin  to 
improve  their  collection  by  weeding  out  the  second  and 
third  rate  heads,  which  they  give  to  their  friends.  And 
then,  in  the  end,  they  are  quite  disappointed  with  anything 
ehort  of  a  royal.  I  went  in  to  JNIacieay's  a  day  or  two  ago 
and  asked  him  to  push  on  with  that  head.  I  thought  Mr. 
Shortlands  would  like  to  see  how  it  looked,  hung  up  in  the 
lodge,  and  I  thought  you  might  like  to  see  it  too." 


YOLANDE.  257 

"It  was  very  kind  of  you,"  she  said. 

**  Has  the  great  hare  drive  come  off?"  he  asked — and 
surely  he  was  trying  to  be  as  pleasant  as  he  could  be.  "  Oh, 
I  think  you  said  it  was  to  be  to-morrow.  I  should  like  to 
have  gone  with  them;  but,  to  tell  you  the  truth,  Yolande, 
I  am  a  little  bit  ashamed.  Your  father  has  been  too  kind 
to  me  ;  that  is  the  fact.  Of  course  if  we  had  the  forest  in  oar 
own  hands  it  would  not  matter  so  much,  for  your  father 
then  might  have  a  return  invitation  to  go  for  a  day  or  two's 
deer-stalking.  But  with  everything  let,  you  see,  I  am 
helpless  ;  and  your  father's  kindness  to  me  has  been  almost 
enbarrassing.  Then  there  is  another  thing.  My  father 
and  aunt  are  odd  people.  They  live  too  much  in  seclusion  ; 
they  have  got  out  of  the  way  of  entertaining  friends,  be- 
cause, with  the  forest  and  the  shooting  always  let,  they 
could  scarcely  ask  any  one  to  come  and  live  in  such  a  remote 
])lace.  It  is  a  pity.  Look  at  the  other  families  in  Inverness- 
shire  ;  look  at  Lord  Lovat,  look  at  Lord  Seafield,  look  at 
the  Mackintosh,  and  these ;  they  go  out  into  the  world ; 
they  don't  box  themselves  up  in  one  place.  But  then  we  are 
})oor  folk  ;  that  is  one  reason,  perhaps  ;  and  my  father 
has  just  one  mania  in  his  life — to  improve  the  condition  of 
Lynn  ;  and  so  he  has  not  gone  about,  perhaps,  as  others 
might  have  done." 

Now  it  sounded  well  in  her  ears  that  this  young  man 
should  be  inclined  to  make  excuses  for  his  father,  even 
when,  as  she  suspected,  the  domestic  relations  at  the  Tow- 
ers were  somewhat  strained,  and  she  instantly  adopted  a 
more  friendly  tone  toward  him. 

"Ah,"  said  she,  "what  a  misfortune  yesterday!  The 
red  shepherd  came  running  in  to  say  that  there  were  some 
deer  up  the  glen  of  the  Allt  Crom  ;  and  of  course  everyone 
hurried  away — my  papa  and  Mr.  Shortlands  to  two  of  the 
passes.  What  a  misfortune  !  there  being  no  one  with  the 
beaters.  They  came  upon  them — yes,  a  stag  and  four  liinds 
■ — quite  calmly  standing  and  nibbling,  and  n\\\'iy— away 
they  went  up  the  hill,  not  going  near  either  of  the  guns. 
Was  it  not  sad  ?  " 

"  Not  for  the  deer." 

"  And  my  j)a])a  not  to  have  a  stag's  head  to  take  back 
as  well  as  Mr.  Shortlands !  "  she  said,  in  great  disappoint- 
ment. 

"Oil,  but  if  you  like  he  shall  have  a  finer  head  to  take 
oack   than  any  he  would   be  likely  to  gel  in  a  half  a  dozen 


258  YOLANDE. 

years  of  those  odd  chances.  I  will  give  him  one  I  shot — - 
with  tliree  horns.  I  have  always  had  a  clear  understanding 
about  tliat :  anything  I  shoot  is  mine — it  doesn't  belong  to 
the  furniture  of  Lynn  Towers.  And  I  will  give  that  head 
to  your  father,  if  you  like ;  it  is  a  very  remarkable  one,  I 
can  assure  you." 

"  That  is  kind  of  you,"  she  said.  They  were  on  more 
friendly  terms  now;  she  had  forgiven  him. 

When  they  got  to  the  summit  of  the  hill  they  got  into 
th.e  dog-cart,  and  descended  the  other  side,  and  drove  away 
through  the  wooded  and  rocky  country.  She  seemed 
pleased  to  be  on  better  terms  with  him,  and  he,  on  his  part, 
was  particularly  good-natured  and  friendly.  But  when 
they  drew  near  to  Gress  she  grew  a  little  more  thoughtful. 
She  could  not  quite  discard  those  hints  she  had  received. 
Then  her  father's  anxious  trouble — was  that  merely  caused 
by  the  disagreement  that  had  broken  out  between  the  Mas- 
ter and  his  relatives?  If  that  were  all,  matters  would 
mend,  surely.  She,  at  all  events,  was  willing  to  let  time 
work  his  healing  wonders ;  she  was  in  no  hurry,  and  cer- 
tainly her  pride  was  not  deeply  wounded.  She  rather 
liked  the  Master's  excuses  for  those  old  people  who  lived  so 
much  out  of  the  w^orld.  And  she  was  distinctly  glad  that 
now  there  was  no  suspicion  of  coldness  between  herself  and 
him. 

There  was  no  one  visible  at  Gress,  and  they  drove  on 
without  stopping.  When  they  arrived  at  the  bridge  the 
Master  got  down  to  open  the  swinging  iron-gate,  telling 
Sandy  to  keep  his  seat,  and  it  was  not  worth  his  while  to 
get  \\\)  again. 

"  Now,"  said  Yolande,  brightly,  "  I  hope  you  will 
change  your  mind  and  come  along  to-morrow  niorning  to 
Allt-nam-Ba,  and  go  with  the  gentlemen,  after  all.  It  is  to 
be  a  great  affair." 

"  I  will  see  if  I  can  manage  it,"  said  he,  evasively  ;  and 
then  they  bade  each  other  good-by,  and  she  drove  on. 

But  although  they  had  seen  no  one  at  Gress,  Jack  Mel- 
ville had  seen  them.  He  was  far  up  the  hillside,  seated  on 
eome  bracken  among  the  rocks,  and  his  elbows  were  on  his 
knees,  and  his  head  resting  on  his  hands.  He  had  gone 
away  up  there  to  be  perfectly  alone — to  think  over  all  that 
he  was  to  say  to  Yolande  on  the  next  day.  It  was  a  terri- 
ble task,  and  he  knew  it. 


YOLANDE.  259 

He  saw  them  drive  by,  and  his  heart  had  a  great  pity 
for  this  girl. 

"  The  evening  is  coming  over  the  sky  novr,"  he  was 
thinking,  as  he  looked  around,  "  and  she  lias  left  behind  her 
the  last  of  the  light-hearted  days  of  her  life." 


CHAPER  XXXII. 

FABULA  NAKRATUK. 


Early  next  morning  (for  he  was  anxious  to  get  this 
painful  thing  over)  he  walked  slowly  and  thoughtfully  up 
to  Allt-nam-Ba.  He  knew  slie  was  at  home,  for  the  dog- 
cart had  gone  by  with  only  Sandy  in  it.  Perhaps  she  might 
be  indoors,  working  at  the  microscope  he  had  lent  her,  or 
arranging  her  plants. 

She  had  seen  him  come  ujiithe  strath  ;  she  was  at  the 
door  awaiting  him,  her  face  radiant. 

"Ah!  but  why  are  you  so  late?"  she  cried.  "They 
are  all  away,  shepherds  and  gillies  and  all,  two  hours  ago." 

"  I  did  not  mean  to  go  with  them.  I  have  come  to  have 
a  chat  with  you,  Yolande,  if  you  will  let  me." 

He  spoke  carelessly,  but  there  w\aa  something  in  his 
look  that  she  noticed  ;  and  when  she  had  preceded  him  into 
the  little  drawing-room,  she  turned  and  regarded  him. 

"What  is  it?  Is  it  serious  ?"  she  said,  scanning  his 
face. 

Well,  he  had  carefully  planned  how  he  would  approach 
the  subject,  but  at  this  moment  all  his  elaborate  designs 
went  clean  away  from  his  brain.  A  far  more  happy  expe- 
dient than  any  he  had  thought  of  had  that  instant  occurred 
to  him.     He  would  tell  her  this  story  as  of  some  one  else. 

"  It  is  serious  in  a  way,"  said  he,  "  for  I  am  troubled 
about  an  unfortunate  plight  that  a  friend  of  mine  is  in. 
Why  should  I  bother  you  about  it  ?  But  still  you  might 
give  me  your  advice." 

"  My  advice  ?  "  she  said.  "  If  it  would  be  of  any  service 
to  you,  yes,  yes.  But  how  could  it  be  ?  What  experience 
of  the  world  have  I  had  ?  " 

"  It  isn't  a  question  of  experience  of  the  world  ;  it  is  a 
question  of  human  nature   mostly,"  said  he.     "And  thi^ 


260  YOLANDE. 

friend  of  mine  is  a  girJ  just  about  your  o\^n  age.  Yon 
might  tell  me  what  you  would  do  in  the  same  circum* 
stances." 

*'  But  I  might  do  something  very  foolish." 

"I  only  want  to  know  what  you  would  naturally  feel 
inclined  to  do.  That  is  the  question.  You  could  easily 
tell  me  that ;  ai.d  I  could  not  find  it  out  for  myself — no, 
not  if  I  were  to  set  all  my  electric  machines  going." 

*'  Ah  !  well,  I  will  listen  very  patiently,  if  I  am  to  be 
the  judge,"  said  she.  "  And  I  am  glad  it  is  not  anything 
worse.  I  thought,  when  you  came  in,  it  was  something 
very  serious." 

.  He  did  not  wish  to  be  too  serious ;  and  indeed  he  man- 
aged to  tell  her  the  whole  story  in  a  fashion  so  plain,  mat- 
ter-of-fact, and  unconcerned  that  she  never  for  an  instant 
dreamed  of  its  referring  to  herself.  Of  course  he  left  out 
all  details  and  circumstances  that  might  positively  have 
given  her  a  clue,  and  only  described  the  central  situation 
as  between  mother  and  daughter.  And  Yolande  had  a 
great  compassion  for  that  poor  debased  woman,  and  some 
pity,  too,  for  the  girl  who  was  kept  in  ignorance  of  her 
mother  being  alive ;  and  she  sat,  with  her  hands  clasped 
on  her  knees,  regarding  these  two  imaginary  figures,  as  it 
were,  and  too  much  interested  in  them  to  remember  that 
her  counsel  was  being  asked  concerning  them. 

"  Now,  you  see,  Yolande,"  he  continued,  "  it  appears 
that  one  of  the  results  of  using  those  damnable — I  beg  your 
pardon — I  really  beg  your  pardon — I  mean  those — those 
poisonous  drugs  is  that  the  will  entirely  goes.  The  poor 
wretches  have  no  command  over  themselves ;  they  live  in 
a  dream  ;  they  will  promise  anything — they  will  make  the 
most  solemn  vows  of  abstinence — and  be  quite  unable  to 
resist  the  temptation.  And  the  law  practically  puts  no 
check  on  the  use  of  these  fiendish  things ;  even  when  the 
public-houses  are  closed,  the  chemist's  shop  is  open.  Now, 
Yolande,  I  have  a  kind  of  theory  or  project  with  regard  to 
that  poor  woman.  I  don't  know  whether  the  doctors 
would  approve  of  it,  but  it  is  a  fancy  I  have  :  let  us  sup- 
pose that  that  poor  wretch  of  a  mother  does  not  quite  un- 
derstand that  her  daughter  has  grown  up  to  be  a  woman — 
most  likely  she  still  regards  her  as  a  child ;  that  is  a  very 
common  thing — at  all  events,  she  is  not  likely  to  know 
anything  ns  to  what  her  daughter  is  like.  And  suppose 
thai  this  dauubter  were   to   ii-o   to   her  mother  and  declare 


YOLANDE.  261 

herself:  do  you  not  thii.k  tlint  tliat  would  be  enongb  to 
startle  her  out  of  her  dream  ?  and  do  you  not  think  that  in 
the  bewilderment  of  finding  tlieir  relations  reversed — the 
child,  grown  to  be  a  woman,  assuming  a  kind  of  protection 
and  authority  and  command  over  the  broken-down  creature 
— she  might  be  got  to  rely  on  that  help,  and  encouraged 
and  strengthened  by  constant  care  and  affection  to  retrieve 
herself?  Don't  you  think  it  is  possible?  To  be  startled 
out  of  that  dream  by  shame  and  horror  ;  then  the  wonder 
of  having  that  beautiful  daugliter  for  lier  champion  and  pro- 
tectress ;  then  the  continual  reward  of  her  companionship  : 
don't  you  think  it  is  possible  ?  " 

"Oh  yes — oh  yes,  surely  !  "  said  the  girl.  "  Surely  you 
are  right ! " 

"  But  then,  Yolande,  I  am  afraid  you  don't  understand 
what  a  terrible  business  it  wdllbe.  It  will  demand  the  most 
constant  watchfulness,  for  these  drugs  are  easy  to  get,  and 
people  that  use  them  are  very  cunning.  And  it  will  require 
a  long  time — perhaps  years — before  one  could  be  certain 
that  the  woman  was  saved.  Now  look  at  it  from  the  other 
side.  Might  not  one  say,  '  That  poor  woman's  life  is  gone, 
is  done  for :  why  should  you  destroy  this  other  young  life 
in  trying  to  save  a  wreck  ?  Why  should  you  destroy  one 
happy  human  existence  in  trying  to  rescue  the  mere  rem- 
nant of  another  human  existence,  that  would  be  worthless 
and  useless  even  if  you  succeed  ?  Why  should  not  the  girl 
live  her  own  life  in  peace  and  iiappiness?'  " 

"  But  that  is  not  what  you  would  say ;  that  is  not  what 
you  think,"  she  said,  confidently.  "And  do  you  ask  what 
the  girl  would  think? — for  I  can  tell  you  that.  Oh  yes,  I 
can  tell  you — she  would  despise  any  one  who  offered  her 
such  a  choice  ?  '"' 

"  But  she  would  be  in  ignorance,  Yolande ;  she  would 
know  nothing  about  it." 

"  She  ought  not  to  be  in  ignorance,  then  !  Why  do  they 
not  tell  her?  Why  not  ask  herself  what  she  will  do?  Ah, 
and  all  this  time  the  poor  woman  left  to  herself — it  was  not 
right — it  was  not  just." 

"  But  she  has  not  been  left  to  herself,  Yolande.  Every- 
thing has  been  tried — everything  but  this.  And  that  is  why 
I  have  come  to  ask  you  what  you  think  a  girl  in  that  posi- 
tion would  naturally  do.  What  would  she  do  if  she  were 
told?" 

"  There  cannot  be  a  doubt,"  she  exclaimed.     "  Oh,  ther« 


262  YOLANDR. 

cannot  be  a  doubt !  You — I  know  what  your  feeling  is, 
what  your  opinion  is.  And  yet  you  hesitate?  Wliy?  Go, 
and  you  will  see  what  her  answer  will  be." 

"  Do  you  moan  to  say,  Yolande,"  he  said,  deliberately, 
and  regarding  her  at  the  same  time,  "  that  you  have  no 
doubt  whatever?  You  say  I  am  to  go  and  ask  this  young 
girl  to  sacrifice  her  life — or  it  may  be  only  a  part,  but  that 
the  best  part,  of  her  life — on  this  chance  of  rescuing  a  poor 
broken-down  creature — " 

"  Her  mother^''  said  Yolande. 

*'  What  will  she  think  of  me,  I  wonder  ?  "  he  said,  ab- 
sently. 

The  answer  was  decisive  : — 

"  If  she  is  the  girl  that  you  say,  oh,  I  know  how  she  will 
be  grateful  to  you.  She  will  bless  you.  She  will  look  on 
you  as  the  best  and  dearest  of  her  friends,  who  had 
courage  when  the  others  were  afraid,  who  had  faith  in  her.'* 

"  Yolande,"  said  he,  almost  solemnly,  "  you  have  de- 
cided for  yourself." 

"  I  ?  "  she  said,  in  amazement. 

"  Your  mother  is  alive." 

She  uttered  a  sharp  cry — of  pain,  it  seemed. 

"  My  mother — my  mother — like  that !  " 

For  a  time  this  agony  of  shame  and  horror  deprived  her 
of  all  power  of  utterance ;  the  blow  had  fallen  heavily. 
Her  most  cherished  and  beautiful  ideals  lay  broken  at  her 
feet ;  in  their  place  was  this  stern  and  ghastly  picture  that 
he  hnd  placed  before  her  mental  eyes.  He  had  not  softened 
down  any  of  the  details  ;  it  was  necessary  tjfetat  she  should 
know  the  truth.  And  she  had  been  so  much  interested  in 
the  story,  as  he  patiently  put  it  before  her,  that  now  she 
had  but  little  difficulty — alas  !  she  had  no  difficulty  at  all — 
in  placing  herself  in  the  position  of  that  imaginary  daugh- 
ter, and  realizing  what  she  had  to  face. 

He  waited.  He  had  faith  in  her  courage  ;  but  he  would 
give  her  time.  This  was  a  sudden  thing  to  happen  to  a  girl 
of  nineteen. 

"  Well,"  she  said  at  length,  in  a  low  voice,  "  I  will  go." 

Her  hands  were  tightly  clinched  together,  but  she 
showed  no  symptom  of  faltering.  Presently  she  said,  in  the 
same  steady,  constrained  way, — 

"  I  will  go  at  once.  Does  papa  know  you  were  coming 
bere  to-day  to  tell  me  ?  " 

*'Yes.     He  could  not  do  it  himself,  Yolande.     He  has 


YOLANDE.  263 

suffered  fearfully  during  these  long  years  in  order  to  hide 
this  from  you  ;  he  thought  it  would  only  pain  you  to  know 
— that  you  could  do  no  good." 

"  What  induced  him  to  change  his  mind  ?  " 

He  was  embarrassed  ;  he  had  not  expected  the  '^[uestion. 
She  glanced  at  his  face. 

"  Was  that  the  objection  at  Lynn  Towers?"  she  said, 
calmly. 

"  No,  Yolande,  no  ;  it  was  not.  I  daresay  Lord  Lynn 
does  not  quite  approve  of  your  father's  politics  ;  but  that 
has  nothing  to  do  with  you." 

"  Then  it  was  your  idea  that  I  shouhl  be  told  ?  " 

"  Well,"  said  he,  uneasily,  "possibly  your  father  im- 
agined that  Archie  Leslie  might  not  like — might  think  lie 
had  been  unfairly  treated  if  he  were  not  told — and  then  1 
was  his  friend,  don't  you  see,  and  they  mentioned  the  mat- 
ter to  me — and — and  being  an  outsider,  I  was  reluctant  to 
interfere  at  first — but  then,  when  they  spoke  of  telling  you, 
I  said  to  myself  that  I  knew,  or  I  fancied  I  knew  what  a 
girl  like  Yolande  Winterbourne  would  be  sure  to  do  in  such 
circumstances — and  so  I  thought  I  would  v-^enture  the  sug- 
gestion to  them,  and — and  if  it  turned  out  to  be  so,  then  I 
might  be  of  some  little  help  to  you." 

That  was  cleverly  done  ;  he  had  not  told  her  it  was 
the  Master  of  Lynn  who  had  insisted  on  that  disclosure. 

And  now  slie  was  gathering  her  courage  to  her,  though 
still  she  maintained  a  curious  sort  x  constrained  reserve  as 
though  she  were  keeping  a  tigh*  xiold  over  her  feelings. 

"  I  suppose,"  she  said  slo  -,iy,  "  it  is  your  idea  I  should 
go  there — alone  ?  " 

"  If  you  are  not  afraid,  Yolande — if  you  are  not  afraid," 
he  said,  anxiously. 

"  I  am  not  afraid." 

"  Don't  you  see,  Yolande,"  he  said,  eagerly,  "  if  you  go 
accompanied  by  a  stranger,  she  may  think  it  is  a  solicitor — 
people  in  that  weak  mental  state  are  usually  suspicious— 
and  if  you  go  with  your  father  «he  would  probabl}'  only 
consider  it  a  repetition  of  former  interviews  that  came  to 
nothing.  No  ;  it  is  the  appearance  of  her  daughter  that  will 
startle  her  into  sudden  consciousness  of  what  she  is.  Then 
don't  mind  those  people  she  is  with.  Don't  be  afraid  of  them. 
They  dare  not  detain  her.  You  will  have  a  policeman  wait- 
ing outside ;  and  your  maid  will  go  into  the  house  with  you 
and  wait  in  the  passage.    You  will  have  to  assume  authority. 


264  YOLANDE. 

Four  mother  may  be  a  bit  dazed,  poor  woman;  you  must  take 
her  with  you  ;  let  no  one  interfere.  Now  do  you  think  you 
have  nerve  for  that — all  by  yourself?" 

"  Oh,  yes,  I  think  so, "  she  said  calmly.  "  But  I  must 
begin  at  the  beginning.  I  cannot  leave  the  lodge  without 
putting  some  one  in  charge." 

"  I  will  send  up  Mrs.  Bell,  she  will  be  delighted." 

"  Ah,  will  you  ?  "  she  said,  with  a  quick  glance  of  grati- 
tude breaking  through  hei-  forced  composure  "  If  only  she 
would  be  so  kind  as  to  do  that !  She  knows  everything 
that  is  wanted." 

"  Don't  trouble  yourself  about  that  for  a  moment,"  he 
said.  "  Mrs.  Bell  will  be  delighted;  there  is  nothing  she 
would  not  do  for  you." 

"  Then  1  must  take  away  ray  things  with  me.  Perhaps 
I  shall  not  see  Ailt-nam-Ba  again.  My  life  will  be  altered 
now.     Where  do  I  go  when  I  reach  London  ?  " 

''  I  should  say  the  hotel  your  father  and  you  were  at 
once  or  twice,  in  Albemarle  Street.  But  are  you  sure,  Yo- 
lande,  you  would  rather  not  have  some  one  go  with  you 
to  London  and  see  you  to  your  quarters  in  the  hotel  ? 
why,  I  would  myself — with  pleasure,  for  my  assistant 
Dalrymple  gets  on  very  well  in  the  school  now.  Or  Mr. 
Shorthands. — he  is  going  south  soon,  is  he  not  ?  I  would  not 
ask  your  father;  it  would  be  too  painful  for  him." 

"No,"  she  said,  "I  do  not  want  anyone.  Jane  and 
I  will  do  very  well.  Besides,  I  could  not  wait  for  Mr.  Short- 
lands.  I  am  going  at  once. 

*'  At  once  !  Surely  you  will  take  time  to  consider — " 

"  I  am  going  to-morrow."  she  said,  "if  Mrs.  Bell  will 
be  so  kind  as  to  come  and  take  my  place." 

"  Don't  be  so  precipitate,  Yolande,"  he  said,  with  some 
anxiety.  "  I  have  put  all  this  before  you  for  your  considera- 
tion, and  I  should  feel  I  was  burdened  with  a  terrible  respon- 
sibility if  you  were  to  do  anything  you  might  afterward 
regret.     Will  you  consult  Mr.  Shorthands  ?  " 

She  shook  her  head. 

"  Will  you  take  a  week  to  think  over  it  ?  " 

"No;  why?"  she  said,  simply.  "  Did  I  not  consider 
when  you  were  telling  me  the  story  of  this  imaginary  girl? 
Had  I  any  doubt  ?  No.  I  knew  what  she  wo  aid  decide.  I 
know  what  I  have  decided.  What  use  is  there  in  delay? 
Ah,  if  there  is  to  be  the  good  come  out  of  it  that  you  have 
imagined  for  me,  should  I  not  haste  ?  When  one  is  perish- 


YOLANDE,  i>65 

ing  you  do  not  think  twice  if  you  can  hold  out  your  hand. 
Do  you  think  that  I  regret  — that  I  am  sorry  to  leave  a 
little  comfort  behind — that  I  am  afraid  to  take  a  little 
trouble?  Surely  you  do  not  think  that  of  me  ?  Why  I  am 
anxious  to  go  now  is  to  see  at  once  what  can  be  done;  to 
know  the  worst  or  the  best ;  to  try.  And  now — I  shall  not 
be  speaking  to  my  papa  about  it ;  that  would  only  give  pain 
— will  you  tell  me  what  I  should  do  in  all  the  small  particu- 
hxrs  ?  I  am  not  likely  to  forget." 

That  he  could  do  easily,  for  he  had  thought  enough 
over  the  matter.  He  gave  her  the  most  minute  instructions, 
guarding  against  this  or  that  possibility,  and  she  listened 
mutely  and  attentively,  with  scarcely  the  interruption  of  a 
question.  Then,  at  length,  he  rose  to  say  good-by,  and  she 
rose  too.  He  did  not  notice  that,  as  she  did  so,  her  lips 
quivered  for  the  briefest  second. 

He  hesitated. 

"  If  you  are  going  to-morrow,  Yolande,"  said  he,  "I  will 
see  you  as  you  pass.  I  will  look  out  for  you.  I  should  like 
to  say  good-by  to  you  ;  it  may  be  for  a  long  time." 

"  It  may  be  for  always,"  she  said,  with  her  eyes  cast 
down  ;  "  perhaps  I  shall  never  be  back  here  again." 

"  And  I  am  sending  you  away  into  all  this  trouble  and 
grief.  How  can  I  help  knowing  that  it  is  I  who  am  doing 
it?  And  perhaps,  day  after  day  and  night  after  night,  I 
shall  be  trying  to  justify  myself,  when  I  am  thinking  over 
it,  and  wondering  where  you  are  ;  and  perhaps  1  shall  not 
succeed  very  well." 

"  But  it  is  I  who  justify  you — that  is  enough,"  she  said, 
in  a  low  voice.  '*  Did  I  not  decide  for  myself?  And  I 
know  that  in  your  heart  you  think  I  am  doing  right  ;  and 
if  you  are  afraid  for  me — well,  that  is  only  kindness — such 
as  that  you  have  always  shown  to  me." 

Here  she  stopped ;  and  he  did  not  see  that  her  hands 
were  clinched  firm,  as  she  stood  there  opposite  him,  with 
her  eyes  cast  down. 

"  And  whatever  happens,  Yolande — you  may  be  in  pain 
and  grief,  and  perhaps  all  you  may  endure  may  only  end 
in  bitter  disappointment — well,  I  hope  you  will  not  imagine 
that  I  came  to  you  with  my  proposal  unthinkingly.  I  have 
thought  over  it  night  and  day.  I  did  not  come  to  you 
offhand." 

"  Ah,  then,"  said  she,  quickly,  "  and  you  think  it  is 
neccessary  to  justify  yourself — you,  to  me,  as  if  I   did  not 


266  YOLANDE, 

know  you  as  well  as  I  know  myself!  Do  you  think  I  do  not 
know  you  and  understand  you — because  I  am  only  a  girl?" 
Her  forced  composure  was  breaking  down  altogether;  she 
was  trembling  somewhat ;  aud  now  there  were  tears  running 
down  her  cheeks,  despite  herself,  though  she  regarded  him 
bravely,  as  if  she  would  not  acknowledge  that.  "  And  you 
asked  me  what  the  girl  you  spoke  of  would  think  of  the  man 
who  came  to  her  and  showed  her  what  she  should  do.  Did 
I  not  answer  ?  I  said  she  would  know^  then  that  he  was  the 
one  who  had  faith  in  her;  that  she  would  give  him  her 
gratitude;  that  she  would  know  who  was  her  best  and 
truest  friend.  And  now,  just  as  you  and  I  are  about  to  say 
good-by,  perhaps  forever,  you  think  it  is  necessary  for  you 
to  justify  yourself  to  me — you,  my  best  friend — my  more 
than  friend — " 

And  then — ah,  who  can  tell  how  such  things  happen,or 
which  is  to  bear  the  blame  ? — his  arms  were  round  her  trem- 
bling figure,  and  she  was  sobbing  violently  on  his  breast. 
And  what  was  this  wild  thing  she  said,  in  the  bewilderment 
of  her  grief :  ''  Oh,  why,  w^hy  was  my  life  given  away  before 
I  ever  saw  you  ?  " 

"  Yolande,"  said  he,  with  his  face  very  pale,  "I  am  go- 
ing to  say  something ;  for  this  is  our  last  meeting.  What 
can  a  few  words  matter — my  darling! — if  we  are  never  to 
see  each  other  again  ?  I  love  you.  I  shall  love  you  while 
I  liave  life.  Why  should  I  not  say  it  for  this  once  ?  ^  I 
blinded  myself ;  I  tried  to  think  it  friendship — friendship, 
and  the  world  was  just  filled  with  light  whenever  I  saw 
you !  It  is  our  last  meeting ;  you  will  let  me  say  this  for 
once — how  can  it  harm  you  ?  " 

She  shrank  out  of  his  embrace  ;  she  sank  down  on  the 
couch  there,  and  turned  away  her  head  and  hid  her  face  in 
her  hand. 

"  G?b !  go !  "  she  murmured.  "  What  have  I  done  ? 
For  pity's  sake  go — and  forget  ?     Forget !  " 

He  knelt  down  by  the  side  of  the  couch  ;  and  he  was 
paler  than  ever  now, 

'*  Yolande,  it  is  for  you  to  forget  and  forgive.  I  have 
been  a  traitor  to  my  friend  ;  I  have  been  a  traitor  to  you. 
You  shall  never  see  me  again.  God  bless  you ! — and 
good-by !  " 

He  kissed  her  hair,  and  rose,  and  got  himself  out  of  the 
Vouse.  As  he  went  down  that  wide  strath — his  eyes  fixed 
on  nothing,  like  one  demented,   and  his  mind  whirling  this 


I 


YOLANDE,  267 


way  and  that  amid  clouds  of  remorse  and  reproach  and 
immeasurable  pity — it  seemed  to  him  that  he  felt  on  his 
bro\^  the  weight  of  the  brand  of  Cain. 


CHAPTER  XXXIII. 

PREPARATIONS. 


AiST)  as  for  her  :  she  was  stunned  almost  into  uncon- 
ciousness by  this  shock  of  self-abasement  and  distress.  She 
lay  on  the  sofa,  her  face  covered  with  her  hands  ;  she  could 
not  face  the  light.  What  was  she  then  ? — she  who  hitherto 
had  been  so  fearless  and  so  proud.  A  flirt,  a  jilt,  a  light  o' 
.love — that  was  bow  she  saw  herself;  and  then  there  was 
herself;  and  then  there  was  a  kind  of  despair  over  the 
misery  she  had  wrought,  and  a  yearning  to  have  him  back 
to  implore  his  pity  and  his  forgiveness ;  and  then  sudden 
resolves  to  free  herself  in  another  direction,  at  any  cost  of 
penitence  and  humiliation.  She  began  to  compose  hurried, 
brief  messages,  though  the  throbbing  brain  and  the  shame- 
stricken  soul  could  scarce  decide  between  the  fitness  of 
them.     These  were  some  of  them, — 

"Dear  Papa, — I  have  gone  away.  Tell  Archie  not  to 
think  any  more  about  me.     Yolande." 

And  then  again, — 

"  Dear  Archie — I  send  you  back  the  engagement  ring: 
I  am  not  worthy  to  be  your  wife.  I  am  sorry  if  I  have 
caused  you  any  disappointment,  but  you  have  less  to  regret 
than  I  have." 

And  then  again — to  one  not  named  at  all,— 

"To-day  I  go  away.  Never  think  of  me  again,  or  of 
\N  hat  has  happened.     Forgive  me  ;  that  is  all." 

And  then  she  began  to  think — if  this  wild  torture  of  sug- 
gestions could  be  called  thinking — of  the  undertaking  that 
lay  before  her,  and  the  thought  of  it  was  something  of  a  re- 
lief. There  would  be  an  occupation,  urgent,  continuous,  de- 
manding all  her  attention  ;  in  time,  and  in  a  measure,  she 
might  school  herself  to  forget.  Perhaps,  if  this  duty  turned 
out  to  be  a  very  sad  and  painful  one,  it  might   be  taken  bj 


268  YOLANDE. 

those  whom  she  had  wronged  as  a  sort  of  penance?  She 
was  prepared  to  suffer.  She  thought  she  deserved  to  suf- 
fer. Had  she  not  proved  a  traitor  to  the  man  whom  she  had 
promised  to  marry?  Had  she  not  brougjit  misery  to  this 
best  and  dearest  of  all  her  friends,  to  this  fine  and  noble 
nature  that  she  had  learned  to  know,  and  that  by  her  idle- 
ness and  carelessness — the  carelessness  of  a  vain  coquette 
and  light-o'-love,  heedless  of  consequences?  What  would 
ho  think  of  her  ?  She  could  only  vaguely  recall  the  re- 
proaches he  had  heaped  upon  himself ;  but  she  knew  that 
he  was  in  distress,  and  that  she  was  the  cause  of  it.  And 
perhaps  if  there  were  trials  in  store  for  her,  if  there  was  suf- 
fering in  store  for  her,  perhaps  he  would  never  know  that 
she  rather  welcomed  that,  and  was  content  to  receive  her  pun- 
ishment? Perhaps  he  would  never  know  how  grieved  she 
was  ?  It  was  over  and  done,  not  past  recalL  And  she 
knew  that  lienceforth  her  life  would  be  quite  different  to 
her. 

How  long  slie  lay  there  in  that  misery  of  her  remorse 
and  despair  she  probably  never  knew,  but  at  last  she  forced 
herself  to  rise.  She  was  not  thinking  of  her  appearance ; 
she  did  not  know  that  her  face  was  haggard  and  pale  ;  that 
an  'expression  never  before  there  was  there  now ;  that  her 
eyes  were  no  longer  the  eyes  of  a  child.  She  was  going 
away — this  was  all  she  was  compelling  herself  to  think  about 
— and  there  were  preparations  to  be  made.  And  so  in  a 
slow  and  mechanical  fashion  she  began  to  put  a  few  things 
together,  even  in  this  drawing-room,  although  every  other 
minute  her  heart  seemed  to  stand  still  as  she  came  upon 
some  little  trifle  that  was  associated  with  him — something 
he  had  done  for  her,  something  that  he  had  brought  her, 
showing  his  continued  solicitude  and  thoughtfulness  and  af- 
fection. Why  had  she  not  seen?  Why  did  she  not  under- 
stand ?  And  then  she  began  to  think  of  the  evenings  he 
had  spent  at  the  house,  and  of  the  walks  they  had  had  to- 
gether down  the  wide  valley  ;  and  she  began  to  know  why 
it  was  that  these  evenings  had  seemed  so  rich  in  happy 
human  sympathies,  and  why  the  valley  had  appeared  so  won- 
drous and  beautiful,  and  why  her  life  at  Allt-nam-Ba  had  so 
strange  and  unnamable  a  charm  thrown  over  it.  And  he — 
he  had  been  blind  too.  She  knew  that  he  could  not  have 
imagined  it  jjossible  that  he  was  betraying  his  friend  ;  other- 
wise he  would  have  fled  from  the  place.  She  was  standing 
quite  still   now,  her  eyes  distraught,    and  she   was  trying 


YOLANDE.  269 

recall  the  very  tones  in  which  he  had  said,  "  I  love  you." 
That  was  the  misery  of  it,  and  the  cause  of  lier  shame,  and 
the  just  reason  for  her  remorse  and  self-abasement;  and 
yet — and  yet  somewhere  or  other  deep  down  in  her  heart 
there  was  a  curious  touch  of  pride  that  she  heard  those 
words.  If  circumstances  had  been  different — to  be  a])- 
proved,  to  have  won  the  affection,  to  be  loved  by  one  like 
that!  And  then  a  passion  of  selfcontempt  seized  her,  and 
she  said  to  herself:  '*You  to  tliink  yourself  worthy  of  such 
a  love  !  You,  who  can  allow  yourielf  to  think  of  such  a 
thinic;-^  with  that  ring  on  your  finger  !  " 

Tliis  also  was  strange,  that,  amid  all  the  preparations 
for  de])arture  that  she  was  now  mechanically  makinir,  she 
should  be  possessed  by  a  singular  anxiety  that  Mrs.  Bell, 
when  slie  came  to  Allt-nam-Ba,  should  find  the  household 
arrangements  in  the  most  perfect  order.  Had  she  some 
vague  hope  or  fancy,  then,  that  some  day  or  other,  when 
she  should  be  far  enough  away  from  Allt-nam-Ba  andGress 
and  Lynn,  and  not  likely  to  see  any  of  them  again,  her 
name  migiit  be  mentioned  casually  l)y  this  good  woman, 
and  mentioned  perhaps  with  some  slight  word  of  approval? 
When  she  drew  out  for  Mrs.  Bell's  guidance  a  list  of  her 
arrangements  with  the  Inverness  tradesmen,  she  was  dis- 
satisfied with  the  mere  handwriting  of  it  (for  indeed  her 
fingers  trembled  somewhat),  and  she  destroyed  it  and  wrote 
out  another,  and  that  she  destroyed,  and  wrote  out  another 
— until  the  handwriting  was  fairly  clear  and  correct. 

Her  maid  Jane  was  a  fool  of  a  woman,  but  even  she 
could  see  that  her  young  mistress  was  faint-looking,  and 
even  ill-looking,  and  again  and  again  she  besought  her  to 
desist  from  these  prei)arations,  and  to  go  and  have  some 
lunch,  which  awaited  her  in  the  dining-room. 

"  You  know,  miss,"  said  she,  "  You  can't  go  before 
your  papa  comes  home,  and  then  it  would  be  far  too  late 
to  catch  the  steamer.  You  can't  go  before  the  morning ; 
and  1  am  sure,  miss,  you  will  be  quite  ill  and  unable  to 
travel  if  you  don't  eat  something." 

Well,  Yolande  went  into  the  dining.roora,  and  sat  down 
at  the  table ;  but  she  could  not  eat  or  drink  anything ;  and 
in  a  minute  or  two  she  was  back  again  in  her  bedroom  su- 
perintending the  packing  of  her  trunks.  However  she  was 
in  time  compelled  to  desist.  The  mental  agitation  of  the 
morning,  combined  with  this  want  of  food,  produced  the 
natural  result ;  she  f/radually  acquired  a   violent  headache 


270  YOLANDE. 

— a  headache  so  violent  that  further  superintendance  of 
packing  or  anything  else  was  entirely  out  of  the  question. 
Now  it  was  the  literal  fact  that  she  had  never  had  a  head- 
ache in  her  life — except  once,  at  the  chateau,  when  a  large 
volume  she  was  reaching  for  in  the  librai-y  foil  and  struck 
her — and  she  did  not  know  what  to  do  ;  but  she  fancied 
that  by  tying  a  wet  towel  round  her  head  she  might  lessen 
the  throbbing  of  the  temples;  and  this  she  did,  lying  down 
tlie  while.  Jane  stole  out  of  the  room,  fancying  her  young 
inisti  ess  might  now  get  some  sleep.  The  girl  was  not 
thinking  of  sleep. 

Mr.  Winterbourne  and  John  Shortlands  w^ere  on  their 
way  back  from  the  hill. 

"  I  scarcely  know  what  has  happened  to-day,"  Mr.  Win- 
terbourne was  saying.  "All  the  time  I  have  been  thinking 
of  our  going  back.  And  I  know  what  I  shall  find  when  I 
go  back — the  wreck  of  the  happiness  that  I  have  so  care- 
fully  nursed  all  through  tliese  years.  It  is  like  hedging 
round  a  garden,  and  growing  flowers  there,  and  all  at  once, 
some  morning,  you  find  the  place  trampled  down  and  a 
wilderness.  I  hope  I  am  not  unjust,  Shortlands,  but  I 
think  he  might  have  spared  her." 

"Who?" 

"Young  Leslie.  I  think  he  might  have  spared  her.  It 
was  not  much.     Don't  you  think — out  of  consideration — " 

"Nonsense,  man.  What  young  Leslie  has  done  seems 
to  me,  on  reflection,  perfectly,  just,  and  right,  and  reason- 
able," said  John  Shortlands,  telling  a  lie  in  the  calmest  man- 
ner possible.  "  The  young  people  ought  not  to  be  ham- 
pered in  starting  life.  A  little  trouble  now^ — what  is  that? 
And  it  will  be  better  for  you  too,  Winterbourne.  You 
would  have  kept  on  worrying  yourself.  You  would  have 
been  always  apprehensive  about  something.  You  would 
liave  reproached  yourself  for  not  telling  him." 
,  "  I  am  not  thinking  of  myself,"  Yolande's  father  said, 
rather  wistfully.  "  I  could  have  borne  all  that ;  I  am  used 
to  it.  It  is  about  her  I  am  thinking.  I  remember  in  Egypt 
away  up  at  that  still  place,  wondering  whether  all  her  life 
might  not  be  just  as  quiet  and  uneventful  and  happy  as  it 
was  there," 

"The  fact  is,  Winterbourne,"  said  John  Shortlands, 
bluntly,  "you  are  just  mad  about  that  child  of  yours,  and 
you  expect  the  world  to  be  changed  all  on  her  account; 
whereas  every  reasonable  being  knows  that  she  must  take 


YOLANDE.  271 

her  chance  of  trouble  as  well  as  others.  And  this — what 
is  this  ?  Is  it  so  great  an  affair  ?  You  don't  know  yet 
whether  she  will  follow  out  that  suggestion  of  Melville's. 
Perhaps  she  won't.  If  you  would  rather  she  should  not, 
no  doubt  she  will  abide  by  your  wishes.  By  this  time  she 
has  been  told.  The  secret  is  at  an  end.  Leslie  has  had 
what  he  wanted  :  what  the  devil  more  can  he  ask  for?" 

But  the  asperity  of  this  last  phrase  rather  betrayed  his 
private  opinion  ;  and  so  he  added  quickly  : — 

"  However,  as  you  say,  she  is  more  likely  to  go.  Well, 
why  not  look  at  the  brighter  side  of  things  ?  There  is  a 
possibility.  Oh,  you  needn't  shake  your  head  ;  when  I  look 
at  the  whole  thing  from  Melville's  point  of  view  I  can  see 
the  possibility.  He's  a  devilish  long-headed  fellow  that, 
and  a  devilish  fine  fellow  too ;  not  many  men  would  have 
bothered  their  heads  as  he  has  done.  I  wouldn't.  If  you 
and  I  weren't  old  friends,  do  you  think  I  would  have  inter- 
fered ?  I'd  have  let  you  go  on  your  OAvn  way.  But  now, 
old  chap,  I  think  you'll  find  Yolande  ready  to  go ;  and 
you'd  better  not  make  too  much  fuss  about  it,  and  frighten 
the  girl.  I  shall  be  in  London  ;  I  shall  see  she  has  plenty 
of  money." 

"  It  seems  so  inhuman,"  her  father  said,  absentlv. 

"What?" 

"  That  I  should  remain  here  shooting,  and  she  be  al- 
lowed to  go  away  there  alone." 

"  My  dear  fellow  she'll  get  on  twenty  times  better  with- 
out you,"  said  Shortlands,  plainly.  "It  seems  to  me  that 
what  you  say  Melville  pointed  out  to  you,  was  just  the  per- 
fection of  good  advice.     You'll  do  well  to  abide  by  it." 

"  But  he  does  not  know  Yolande  as  I  do,"  her  father 
said. 

"  He  seems  to  have  made  a  thundering  good  guess,  any- 
way." 

"  I  don't  mean  that.  He  does  not  know  how  she  has 
been  brought  up — always  looked  after  and  cared  for.  She 
has  never  been  allowed  to  shift  about  for  herself.  Oh^  as 
regards  herself  I  can  see  well  enough  that  he  imagines  she 
has  certain  qualities,  and  perhaps  he  thinks  it  rather  fine  to 
make  experiments.  Well,  I  don't.  I  don't  see  why  Yolande 
should  be  made  the  victim  of  any  experiment ;  I  am  con- 
tent with  her  as  she  is." 

"  You'd  better  see  what  she  says  about  it  herself." 

When   they  reached  the  lodge    Yolande   was  not,   as 


272  YOLANDE. 

usual,  standing  in  the  porch  to  welcome  them  home  from 

the  liill. 

"  Please,  sir,"  said  the  maid,  "  Miss  Winterbourne  has  a 
headache,  and  says  would  you  excuse  her  coming  down  to 
dinner." 

lie  stood  irresolute  for  a  second  or  two,  obviously 
greatly  disturbed  ;  then  he  slowly  and  thoughtfully  went  up 
the  stairs,  and  gently  knocked  at  the  door  of  her  room. 

"May  I  come  in,  Yolande?  " 

She  had  just  time  to  untie  the  wet  towel  from  her  head, 
to  smooth  her  hair,  and  sit  up  in  bed. 

"Yes,  papa." 

He  entered,  went  over  and  drew  a  chair  near  to  her, 
and  sat  down. 

"I  am  sorry  for  you  Yolande,"  he  said  in  a  low  voice, 
and  his  eyes  were  nervously  bent  on  the  ground. 

"Why,  ])apa?" 

She  spoke  in  quite  a  cheerful  way  ;  and  as  he  had  not 
suffered  his  eyes  to  meet  hers,  he  was  unaware  how  that 
cheerfulness  was  belied  by  the  strange  expression  in  them. 
She  was  forcing  herself  to  make  liglit  of  this  matter;  she 
would  not  liave  liim  troubled.  And  perliaps,  indeed,  lo  her 
this  was  in  truth  a  light  matter,  as  compaied  with  that 
tragic  disclosure  and  its  consequences  wliicli  seemed  to 
have  cut  away  from  her  at  once,  and  forever,  tlie  shining  and 
rose-colored  years  of  her  youth. 

"  If  I  erred,  Yolande,"  said  he,  "  in  kee])ing  all  this  back 
from  you,  I  did  it  for  the  best." 

"  Do  you  need  to  say  that  to  me,  papa  ?  "  she  answered, 
wdth  some  touch  of  reproach. 

"  I  thought  it  would  save  you  needless  pain,"  said  he  ; 
and  then,  as  he  ventured  to  lift  his  eyes,  he  caught  siglit  of 
the  pale,  anguish-stricken  face,  and  he  nearly  cried  aloud  in 
his  sudden  alarm,  "  Yolande,  are  you  ill?" 

*'  Oh  no,  papa;  "  and  she  did  try  her  best  to  look  very 
oheerful.  "  I  have  a  headache — that  is  all ;  and  it  is  not  so 
Itad.as  it  was.  I — I  have  been  seeing  things  packed,  and 
making  arrangements." 

"You  are  going,  Yolande?"  he  said,  with  a  sinking  of 
the  heart. 

"Tlmt,  again,  it  is  unnecessary  for  you  to  ask  me,"  the 
girl  snid,  siinj)ly. 

"  But  not  at  once,  Yolande?"  said  he,  glancing  at  an 
open  truF'.k.     "  Not  at  unce  ?  " 


YOLANDE  273 

««  To-moiTow  morning,  papa,"  she  answered.  "  Oh,  but  I 
assure  you,  you  will  be  put  to  no  trouble,  no  trouble  at  all. 
Mrs.  Bell  is  coming  from  Gress  to  see  everything  right.  And 
I  have  made  out  lists  for  her;  it  is  all  arianged;  you 
will  not  know  any  difference — " 

"  Yolande,  you  wall  make  me  angry  if  you  talk  like  that. 
What  signifies  our  comfort  ?  It  is  the  notion  of  your  going 
away  by  yourself — " 

*' Jane  goes  with  me.  That  is  all  arranged  also,"  she 
said.     "  I  have  no  fear." 

*' Listen,  now,  Yolande.  I  don't  disapprove  of  your  go- 
ing. We  have  tried  everything,  and  failed  ;  if  there  is  a 
chance  of  your  succeeding — ^vell,  perhaps  one  might  say  it 
is  your  duty  to  go.  Poor  child,  I  would  rather  have  had 
you  know  nothing  about  it;  but  that  is  all  over  now.  Well, 
you  see,  Yolande,  if  you  go,  there  must  be  no  unnecessary 
risk  or  trouble  about  your  going.  I  have  been  thinking 
that  perhaps  Mr.  Melville  may  be  a  little  too  imaginative. 
He  sees  things  strongly.  And  in  insisting  that  you  should 
go  alone,  why,  there  may  be  a  danger  that  he  kas  been 
carried  away  by  a — by  a — well,  I  don't  know  how  to  put 
it,  except  that  he  may  be  so  anxious  to  have  this  striking 
appeal  made  to  your  poor  mother  as  to  be  indifferent  to 
ordinary  precautions.  Why  should  you  go  friendless  and 
alone  ?     Why  should  I  remain  amusing  myself  here?  " 

"Because  you  would  be  of  no  use  to  me,  papa,"  said 
she,  calmly.     "  I  know  what  I  have  to  do." 

"  Why,  then,  should  you  not  wait  for  a  few  days,  and 
travel  south  with  Mr.  Shortlands  ?  " 

"  Oh,  I  must  go  at  once,  papa — at  once  !  "  she  exclaimed. 
"  I  must  go  to-morrow.  And  Jane  goes  with  me.  Is  it  not 
simple  enough  ?  " 

"  Yolande,  you  can  not  be  left  in  London  with  absolute- 
Iv  no  one  to  whom  you  can  appeal.  The  least  you  must 
cio  is  to  take  a  letter  to  Lawrence  <%  Lang.  They  will  do 
anything  you  want ;  they  will  let  you  have  what  you  want ; 
if  there  is  any  hiring  of  lodgings  or  anything  of  that  kind, 
they  will  send  one  of  their  clerks.  You  cannot  be  stranded 
in  London  without  the  chance  of  assistance,  you  must  go 
to  Lawrence  &  Lang." 

"  I  may  have  to  go  to  them — that  also  is  arranged.  But 
they  must  not  interfere,  they  must  not  come  with  me  ;  that 
was  not  Mr.  Melville's  idea,"  slie  said  ;  though  the  pale  face 
turned  still  paler  as  she  forced  herself  to  utter  the  name. 


274  YOLANDE. 

"  Mr.  Melville  !  "  he  said,  angrily.  "  Yon  seem  to  think 
the  whole  wisdom  of  the  world  is  centred  in  Mr.  Melville ! 
I  don't  at  all  know  that  he  was  right  iu  coming  to  put  ail 
this  trouble  on  you.  Perhaps  he  would  not  have  been  so 
quick  if  it  had  been  his  own  sister  or  his  own  daugliter — " 

Then  a  strange  thing  occurred.  She  had  fiurtg  herself 
down  on  the  pillow  again,  her  face  buried,  her  whole  frame 
shaken  by  the  sudden  violence  of  her  crying. 

"  Don't — don't — don't !  "  she  sobbed,  piteously.  "  Don't 
speak  like  that,  papa  !  There  is  enough  trouble — there  is 
enough." 

"  What  is  it,  Yolande?"  said  he.  "  Well,  no  wonder 
your  nerves  have  been  upset.  I  wonder  you  have  taken  it 
so  bravely.  I  will  leave  you  now,  Yolande  ;  but  you  must 
try  and  come  down  to  dinner." 

Dinner  was  put  on  the  table ;  but  she  did  not  make  her 
appearance.  A  message  was  sent  up  to  her;  the  answer 
was  that  she  merely  wished  to  have  a  cup  of  tea  by  and  by. 
Jane,  on  being  questioned,  said  that  everything  had  been 
got  ready  for  their  departure  the  following  morning,  even 
to  the  ordering  of  the  dog-cart  for  a  particular  hour. 

"  Yes,"  her  father  said  to  John  Shortlands,  as  they  sat 
rather  silently  at  the  dinner  table,  "  she  seems  bent  on  go- 
ing at  once.  Perhaps  it  is  because  she  is  nervous  and  anx- 
ious, and  wants  to  know  the  worst.  She  won't  have  any 
one  with  her ;  she  is  determined  to  keep  to  Melville's  plan, 
though  I  wanted  her  to  wait  and  go  south  with  you.  What 
a  dreadful  thing  it  would  be  if  any  harm  were  to  befal 
her--" 

"Why,  what  harm  can  befal  her?"  his  friend  said. 
"  What  is  a  journey  to  London  ? — nothing  !  She  gets  into 
the  train  at  Inverness  to-morrow  at  mid-day ;  the  next 
morning  she  is  in  London.  Then  a  cab  takes  her  to  the 
hotel :  what  more  simple  ?  The  real  risk  begins  after  that ; 
and  it  is  then  that  your  friend  Melville  insists  that  she 
should  take  the  thing  into  her  own  hands.  Well,  dang  me 
if  I'm  afraid  of  the  consequences !  There's  good  grit  in 
her.  She  hasn't  had  her  nerves  destroyed,  as  you  have. 
When  the  cob  was  scampering  all  over  the  place  yesterday, 
and  the  groom  couldn't  get  hold  of  him,  did  she  run  into 
the  house  ?  Not  much.  She  waylaid  him  at  the  end  of 
the  bothy,  and  got  hold  of  him  herself,  and  led  him  to  the 
stable  door.  I  don't  think  the  lass  has  a  bad  temper,  but  I 
shouldn't  like  to  be  the  one  to  put  a  finger  on  her  against 


YOLANDE,  27^ 

her  will.  Don't  you  fear.  I  can  see  where  the  bit  of 
trouble,  if  there  is  to  be  any  at  all,  will  most  likely  come  in  ; 
and  I  am  not  afraid.  It's  wonderful  what  women  will  do 
■ — ay,  and  weak  women  too — in  defense  of  those  who  have 
a  claim  on  their  affection.  Talk  about  the  tigress  and  her 
young:  a  woman's  twice  as  bad,  or  twice  as  good,  if  you 
take  it  that  way.  I  fancy  some  o'  those  poor  devils  of 
School  Board  inspectors  must  have  a  baddish  time  of  it 
occasionally — I  don't  envy  them.  I  tell  you  you  needn't 
be  afraid,  my  good  fellow.  Yolande  will  be  able  to  take 
care  of  herself.  And  I  think  Jack  Melville  has  put  her  on 
to  doing  the  right  thing,  whatever  conies  of  it." 

Yolande  did  not  appear  that  night ;  she  was  too  much 
distracted  by  her  own  tlioughts ;  she  did  not  wish  to  be 
confronted  with  questioning  eyes.  But  she  found  time  to 
write  this  brief  note  : 

"  Tuesday  night. 

*'  Deae  Mr.  Shortlands, — As  it  is  not  likely  I  shall 
see  you  in  the  morning,  for  I  am  going  away  at  a  very 
early  hour,  1  leave  you  this  word  of  good-by.  And  please 
— please  stay  with  papa  as  long  as  ever  you  conveniently 
can.  Duncan  assures  me  that  it  is  now  you  will  be  begin- 
ning to  have  chances  with  the  red  deer. 
*•  Yours  affectionately, 

"  Yolande  Winterbourne." 

And  as  to  tliat  other — the  friend  who  was  sending  her 
forth  on  this  mission — was  she  going  away  without  one 
word  of  good-by  for  him  ?  She  considered  that ;  and  did 
not  sleep  much  that  night. 


CHAPTER   XXXIV. 

"  IHR   MATTEN,    LEBT    WOHL  !  " 

The  pale  clear  glow  of  the  dawn  was  telling  on  the 
higher  slopes  of  the  hills  when  she  arose,  and  all  the  house 
was  asleep.  The  heart  searching  of  that  long  night  had 
calmed  her  somewhat.  Now  she  was  chiefly  anxious  to 
get  away;  to  seek    forgetfulness  of  this  sad  discovery  in 


276  YOLANDE. 

the  immediate  duty  that  lay  before  her.  And  if  sometiraefS 
the  fear  was  forced  upon  her  that  neither  for  him  nor  for 
her  was  forgetfuhiess  possible,  well,  it  was  not  her  own 
share  of  that  suffering  that  she  regarded  with  dismay. 
Nay,  did  she  not  rather  welcome  that  as  a  punishment 
which  she  deserved,  as  a  penance  which  might  be  counted 
to  her  in  the  due  course  of  years  ?  If  this  passage  in  her 
life  was  not  to  be  obliterated,  at  least,  and  in  the  meantime 
she  would  endeavor  to  close  the  chapter.  She  was  going 
away  from  AUt-nam-Ba,  and  from  the  mistakes  and  mis- 
eries that  had  happened  there.  A  new  era  in  her  life  was 
opening  before  her ;  perhaps  she  would  have  less  to  re- 
l^roach  herself  with  in  that. 

In  the  silence  of  this  pale  clear  morning  she  sat  down 
and  wrote  still  another  message  of  farewell,  the  terms  of 
which  she  had  carefully  (and  not  without  some  smitings  of 
conscience)  studied  during  the  long  wakeful  hours : 

"  Allt-nam-Ba,  Wednesday  morning. 
"  Dear  Archie, — a  grave  duty  calls  me  suddenly  away 
to  the  south.  No  doubt  you  can  guess  Avhat  it  is ;  and 
you  will  understand  how,  in  the  meantime  at  least,  all  our 
other  plans  and  arrangements  must  yield  to  it.  Probably, 
as  I  am  anxious  to  catch  the  early  boat  at  Foyers,  I  may 
not  see  you  to  say  good-by;  and  so  I  send  you  this  message 

"  From  your  affectionate 

*'Y0LANDE." 

She  regarded  this  letter  with  much  self-humiliation.  It 
was  not  frank.  Perhaps  she  had  no  right  to  write  to  him 
so,  without  telling  him  of  wh.at  had  happened  the  day  be- 
fore. And  yet,  again,  what  time  was  there  now  for  ex- 
])l:ination  ?  and  perhaps,  as  the  days  and  the  months  and 
the  years  went  by,  there  might  never  be  need  of  any  ex- 
l^bmation.     Her  life  was  to  be  all  different  now. 

The  household  began  to  stir.  There  was  a  crackling  of 
wood  in  the  kitchen ;  outside,  Sandy  could  be  heard  open- 
ing the  doors  of  the  coachouse.  Then  Jane  put  in  anappear- 
ance,  to  finally  close  her  young  mistress's  portmanteaux. 
And  then,  everything  having  been  got  ready,  when  she  went 
downstairs  to  the  dining-room,  she  was  surprised  to  find 
hei-  father  there. 

"Why  did  you  get  up  so  early?"    said  she,  in  pro- 
test. 


YOLANDE.  277 

"  Do  you  think  I  was  going  to  let  you  leav^  without  say- 
ing good-by  ?  "  he  answered.  ''You  are  looking  a  little  bet- 
ter this  morning,  Yolande  — but  not  well,  not  well.  Are 
you  sure  you  won't  reconsider  ?  Will  you  not  wait  a  few 
days,  accustom  yourself  to  think  of  it,  and  then  go,  if  you 
will  go,  with  Mr.  Shortlands?" 

"  Oh  no,  that  is  all  over,  papa,"  said  she.  "  That  is  all 
settled.     I  am  going  this  morning — now." 

"  Now  ?  Why  now  ?  It  is  only  half  past  six  !  "  he  ex- 
claimed. 

"  1  wish  to  have  enough  time  at  Gress,"  she  answered, 
calmly,  "to  explain  all  the  arrangements  to  Mrs.  Bell." 

But  he  compelled  her  to  sit  down  and  have  some  break- 
fast, while  he  remained  at  the  window,  anxious,  disturbed, 
and  yet  for  the  most  part  silent.  There  was  no  doubt  he 
regarded  her  going  with  an  undefined  dread  ;  but  he  saw 
that  it  was  no  use  to  try  to  dissuade  her,  her  purpose  being 
80  obviously  settled  and  clear.  There  was  another  thing  : 
he  showed  the  greatest  embarrassment  in  talking  in  any 
way  whatever  about  the  subject.  He  could  not  bring  him- 
self to  mention  his  wife's  name.  To  Yolande  he  had  said 
"your  poor  mother" — but  only  once.  He  seemed  unable 
to  make  this  thing  that  he  had  hidden  from  her  for  so  many 
years  a  topic  of  conversation. 

And  it  was  almost  in  silence,  and  with  a  face  overshad- 
owed with  gloom,  that  he  saw  the  last  preparations  made. 
He  followed  her  out  to  the  dog-cart.  He  himself  would 
fasten  the  rugs  round  her  knees,  the  morning  being  some- 
what chilly.  And  when  they  drove  away  he  stood  there 
for  a  long  time  regarding  them,  until  the  dog-cart  disap- 
peared at  the  turning  of  the  road,  and  Yolande  was  gone. 
This,  then,  was  the  end  of  that  peaceful  security  that  he  had 
hoped  to  find  at  Allt-nam-Ba  ! 

Yolande  was  not  driving  this  morning ;  she  had  too 
many  things  to  think  of.  But  when  they  reached  the  bridge- 
at  the  lower  end  of  the  loch,  she  told  Sandy  to  stop,  and 
took  the  reins. 

"  Here  is  a  letter  for  Mr.  Leslie."  she  said.  "You  need 
not  take  it  up  to  the  house ;  put  it  in  the  letter-box  at  the 
gate." 

Then  they  drove  on  again.  When  they  had  climbed  the 
hill  she  looked  over  to  Lynn  Towers,  but  she  could  not 
make  out  any  one  at  any  of  the  windows.  There  were  one 
or  two  stable  lads  about  the  outhouses,  but  otherwise  no 


278  YOLANDE. 

sign  of  life.  She  was  rather  glad  of  that.  If  he  had  waved 
his  handkerchief  to  her,  could  she  have  answered  that  sig. 
nal  without  further  hypocrisy  and  shame  ?  Little  did  he 
know  what  traitress  was  passing  by.  But  indeed  she  ^\  as 
gradually  ceasing  to  reproach  herself  in  this  way,  for  the 
reason  that  she  was  ceasing  to  think  about  herself  at  all.  It 
was  of  another  that  she  was  thinking.  It  was  his  future 
that  concerned  her.  tWhat  would  nil  his  after-life  be  like? 
Would  there  be  some  reparation  ?  Would  time  heal  that  as 
it  healed  all  things  ? 

When  she  got  to  Gress  she  saw  that  Mrs.  Bell  was  in 
the  garden  behind  the  house,  and  thither  she  made  her  way. 
Yolande's  face  was  pale,  but  her  manner  was  quite  calm 
and  firm. 

"  Well,  here  are  doings !  "  said  the  cheerful  old  lady. 
"  And  I  was  just  hurrying  on  to  get  a  few  bit  flowers  for  ye. 
'Deed,  ye're  early  this  morning." 

"  It  is  very  kind  of  you,  Mrs.  Bell ;  but  please  do  not 
trouble.  You  expected  me,  then  ?  Mr. — Mr.  Melville  told 
you?" 

"  That  he  did.  And  I'll  just  be  delighted  to  be  of  any 
kind  of  service  to  ye  that  is  possible.  I'll  be  ready  to  go 
up  to  Allt-nam-Ba  by  mid-day;  and  I'm  thinking  I'll  take 
one  o'  the  young  lassies  wi'  me,  in  case  there's  any  need- 
cessity  for  a  helping  band.  The  other  one  will  do  very  well 
to  look  after  this  place  when  both  Mr.  Melville  and  me  are 
away." 

"  But  is  he  going — is  he  going  away  ?  "  said  Yolande, 
with  a  sudden  alarm. 

"I  think  he  is;  though  it's  no  my  place  to  ask,"  said 
Mrs.  Bell,  placidly.  "Last  night  I  saw  he  was  putting 
some  things  in  order  in  the  house.  And  I  jalouse  he 
stopped  in  the  laboratory  the  whole  night  through  for  he 
never  was  in  his  bed  ;  and  this  morning  I  caught  a  glint  o' 
him  going  out  before  any  o'  us  was  up.  I  dare  say  he  was 
off  to  one  o'  the  moorland  lochs  to  have  a  last  day  at  the 
trout  belike." 

"  He  is  not  here,  then  ?  "  the  girl  exclaimed,  with  dis- 
may in  her  eyes.  "  Mrs.  Bell,  I  must  see  him  !  Indeed,  I 
cannot  go  until  I  have  seen  him." 

*' Wha  kens  where  he  may  be  now  ?"  said  the  old  lady, 
good-humoredly  (for  she  clearly  had  no  idea  that  there  was 
anything  tragic  occurring  around  her).  "  There  never  was 
Buch  a  man  for  wandering  about  the  country  like  a  warlock. 


YOLANDE  279 

Many  a  fright  has  he  gi'en  the  shepherds,  when  they  came 
upon  him  in  the  corries  that  no  ordinary  Christian  ever 
goes  near." 

"  But  you  must  send  for  him,  Mrs.  Bell,"  gaid  Yolande, 
with  that  forced  calmness  of  demeanor  almost  bi-eaking 
down.  "  I  can  not  go  away  without  bidding  him  good- 
by." 

The  old  woman  stopped  arranging  the  flowers  she  had 
gathered. 

"  I  canna  send  to  search  the  whole  country  o'  Inverness," 
she  said,  reflectively,  "and  wha  kens  where  he  may  be?  If 
he's  no  back  by  schooltime  he's  off  for  the  day — ay,  and 
without  a  biscuit  in  his  pocket,  I'll  be  warrant.  But  it's 
just  possible  he  has  only  gaen  doon  to  the  burn  to  get  a 
trout  or  two ;  I  can  send  one  o'  the  lassies  to  see.  And 
though  I've  never  kenned  him  to  go  up  to  the  water- 
wheel  at  this  time  o'  the  morning,  I  canna  gang  wrang  in 
making  the  bell  ring.  If  you'll  just  hold  the  flowers  for  a 
minute,  my  dear  young  leddy,  I'll  go  into  the  house  and 
see  what  can  be  done." 

She  held  the  flowers  mechanically ;  she  did  not  look  at 
them  ;  her  eyes  were  "  otherwhere."  But  when  Mrs.  Bell 
came  back  she  recalled  herself ;  and  with  such  calmness  as 
she  could  command  she  showed  the  old  lady  all  the  arrange- 
ments she  had  made  with  regard  to  the  household  of  Allt- 
nam-Ba,  and  gave  her  the  lists  that  she  had  carefully  drawn 
out.  And  Mrs.  Bell  would  hear  of  no  such  thing  as  thanks 
or  gratitude ;  she  said  people  were  well  off  who  could  be  of 
any  little  service  to  them  they  liked,  and  intimated  that  she 
was  proud  to  do  this  for  the  sake  of  the  young  lady  who 
had  been  kind  enough  to  take  notice  of  her. 

"  And  so  you  are  going  away  for  awhile,"  said  the  old 
Scotchwoman,  cheerfully.  "Ay,  ay.  But  coming  back 
soon  again,  I  hope.  Indeed,  my  dear  young  leddy,  if  it 
wasua  a  kind  o'  presumption  on  my  part,  I  would  say  to  ye, 
as  they  say  in  the  old  ballad, '  O  when  will  ye  be  back  again, 
my  hinnie  and  my  dear?'  For  indeed,  since  ye  came  to 
Allt-nam-Ba,  it  has  just  been  something  to  gladden  an 
auld  woman's  een." 

"  What  is  the  ballad,  Mrs.  Bell  ?  "  Yolande  said,  quickly 
She  wished  to  evade  these  friendly  inquiries.  And  already 
she  was  beginning  to  wopder  whether  she  had  enough 
strength  and  courage  to  force  herself  to  go  without  seeing 
liim  artd  saying  this  last  vord  to  him. 


280  YOLANDE. 

«  The  ballad  ?  Oh,  that  was  the  ballad  o'  young  Randal," 
said  Mrs.  Bell,  in  her  good-natured,  garrulous  way.  "  May- 
be ye  never  heard  that  one  ? — 

*  Young  Randal  was  abonnie  lad  when  he  gaod  awa', 
A  braw,  braw  lad  was  he  when  he  gaed  awa'.* 

That  is  how  it  begins ;  and  then  they  a'  come  doon  to  see 
him  ride  off— his  father,  and  his  mother,  and  his  two  sisters  ; 
but,  as  ye  may  imagine, — 

*  His  bonnie  cousin  Jeau  lookit  o'er  the  castle  wa,' 
And  far  aboon  the  lave  let  the  tears  doon  fa'.' 

Then  it  goes  on  : — 

* "  O  when  will  ye  be  back  again  ?  "  sae  kindly  did  sVw  spier  ; 
"  O  when  will  ye  be  back  again,  my  hiiinie  and  my  dear  ?  " 
"  As  soon  as  I  have  won  enough  o'  Spanish  gear 
To  dress  ye  a'  in  silks  and  lace,  my  dear." 

That  was  the  way  o'  those  times,  and  mony  a  sair  heart  was 
the  consequence.     Will  I  tell  ye  the  rest  o'  the  story?" 

"  Oh,  yes,  Mrs.  Bell,  if  you  please,"  said  Yolande  though 
now  she  was  scanning  the  vacant  hillsides  with  a  wistful 
and  troubled  eye.  Was  he  not  coming,  then  ?  Must  she 
go  away  without  that  last  word  ? 

"  Ye  see,  ray  young  leddy,  the  story  jumps  over  a  good 
many  years  now,  and  he  comes  back  to  seek  out  his  true- 
love  Jean." 

"  Yes,  yes,"  said  Yolande,  with  more  of  interest,  "to  see 
whether  she  has  been  faithf nl  to  him,  is  it  not  ?  And  of 
course  she  is.  It  is  so  easy  for  one  to  remain  faithful — in  a 
ballad,  where  nothing  happens  but  the  f.ancy  of  the  poet. 
And  then,  if  she  Avas  not  faithful,  who  would  write  about 
her  ?     She  would  be  contemptible — that  is  all." 

"  No  so  fast,  my  dear  young  leddy — no  so  fast.  Just 
listen  to  the  story, — 

'  Young  Randal  was  an  altered  man  when  he  came  hame  ; 
A  sair  altered  man  was  he  when  he  came  hame, 
Wi'  a  star  on  liis  bi-east  and  a  Sir  to  his  name, 
And  wi'  gray,  gray  locks  Sir  Randal  came  hame. 

*  He  rode  to  the  castle  and  he  rispit  at  the  ring, 
And  down  came  our  lady  to  iTid  him  ride  in  ; 

And  round  her  bonnie  bairnies  were  playin'  on  the  grjen  : 

*  Can  this  auld  wife  be  my  true-love  Jean  ?  " 


YOLANDE.  281 

■ "  And  whatna  dour  au  1  carle  is  this  ?|'  |lLQtli  tlie  dame. 
"  Sae  griff  and  sae  stilf,  sae  feckless  anu^sae^ame  ?" 

Quoth  he  :  "  My  bojuiie  leddy,  were  ye^w^Jeanie  Graham  '?  " 
"Indeed,  good  sir,  ye  have  guessed  my  v^!y:rai:^e:" .  -t  ?t  sa  ^  \ 


*  Oh,  dool  on  the  wars  in  the  High  Germanie  ! 
And  dool  on  the  poortith  o'  our  ain  countrie  ! 
And  dool  on  the  heart  that  unfaithful  can  be  !  — 
For  they've  wrecked  the  bravest  man  in  the  whole  countrie  !  "  * 

Ye  see,  it's  a  sad  story  enough  ;  but  I'm  no  sure  whether  to 
blame  the  wars  in  the  High  Germanie,  or  the  poverty  o'  the 
old  Scotch  families,  or  the  young  lass  changing  her  mind. 
Maybe  if  she  had  been  less  anxious  for  silks  and  lace,  and 
maybe  if  he  had  been  less  anxious  to  hae  a  Sir  to  his  name, 
he  might  hae  bided  at  home,  and  married  her,  and  lived 
happily  enough.  It's  .the  way  o'  young  people  never  to  bo 
satisfied.  And  here  is  Mr.  Melville  going  away  just  when 
everything  was  ready  for  his  taking  back  the  land  that  be- 
longed to  his  own  people,  and  settling  down  on  it  as  he 
ought." 

"  Perhaps  he  will  not  go — perhaps  he  is  not  going,  Mrs. 
Bell,"  she  said,  in  a  despairing  kind  of  way ;  for  well  she 
knew,  if  he  were  indeed  going  what  was  the  cause. 

Then  she  looked  at  her  watch.  Well,  she  had  still 
nearly  half  an  hour  to  spare,  and  she  was  determined  to 
stay  till  the  last  minute  if  it  were  needful.  But  there  was 
no  fifyure  comincc  alonsf  the  road,  no  livinsj  thino'  visible  on 
these  vacant  hillsides,  nor  a  sign  of  life  along  the  wide 
moorland  of  the  valley.  She  was  grateful  for  Mrs.  Bell's 
talking ;  it  lessened  the  overstrain  of  the  suspense  somehow 
she  had  to  force  herself  to  listen  in  a  measure.  And  again 
and  again  she  expressed  the  hope  that  there  must  be  a 
mistake,  that  Mr.  Melville  was  not  really  going  away. 

"  It's  not  my  place  to  ask,"  the  old  lady  said,  doubtfully ; 
"  but  he  had  a  long  talk  when  he  came  home  yesterday  wi' 
the  lad'Dalrymple,  and  I  jalouse  it  was  about  his  being 
able  to  carry  on  the  school  by  himseP.  It's  just  that  vexa- 
tious, ray  dear  young  leddy ! — and  yet  it  canna  be  helped. 
I  darena  say  a  word.  lie's  a  headstrong  man,  and  he's  to 
be  managed  only  wi'  a  good  deal  o'  skill  ;  and  if  he  thought 
I  was  any  kind  o'  encumbrance,  or  expected  him  to  do  this, 
that,  or  the  other,  he  would  be  off  in  a  gliff.    But  tlie  vexa- 

*  Probably  this  version  of  the  ballad  is  veiT"  imperfect,  as  it  is  put 
down  here  from  meinory. 


282  YOLANDE 

tiousness  o't,  to  be  sure !  It  was  only  the  day  before 
yesterday  that  I  wrote  to  they  lawyers  again.  I'm  no  gaun 
to  tell  ye,  my  young  leddy,  what  they  said  about  the  price 
o'  Monaglen,  for  it  might  get  about,  and  I'm  no  wanting 
him  to  ken  what  I  paid  for  it,  if  I  get  it.  But  I  found  1 
could  easy  buy  it,  and  have  a  good  nest-egg  for  him  besides  ; 
besides  my  own  £220  a  year  or  thereabouts  ;  and  sae  I 
wrote  to  they  lawyers  just  asking  them  in  a  kind  o'  way  to 
get  me  the  refusal  of  the  place  for  a  freend  o'  mine.  And 
then  yesterday  morning  I  began  and  argued  wi'  mysel'.  I 
coveted  the  place,  that's  the  truth.  And  says  I,  '  Kirsty, 
what's  the  use  o'  being  ower-cunning?  If  ye  want  to  buy 
Monaglen,  tell  them.  A  braw  thing  now,  if  it  were  to  slip 
through  your  fingers,  and  be  snappit  up  by  somebody  else : 
wudna  ye  be  a  disappointed  woman  a'  the  days  o'  your 
life  ?'  And  so,  as  second  thochts  are  best,  I  just  sat  down 
and  told  them  plump  and  plain  that  if  Monaglen  was  to  be 
got  for  that,  here  was  a  woman  that  would  take  it  for  that, 
and  telled  them  to  make  the  bargain,  and  drive  a  nail  into  it, 
there  and  then ;  and  that  a'  the  other  things — a'  the 
whigmaleeries  they  invent  just  to  make  poor  folk  pay 
money — could  be  settled  after.  And  to  think  o'  him  going 
away  the  now,  just  when  the  night's  post,  or  may  be  the 
morn's  night  post,  is  almost  sure  to  bring  me  a  telegram — I 
declare  it's  too  provokin' !  " 

"  But  perhaps  he  is  not  going  away,"  said  Yolande, 
gently.  And  then  she  added,  suddenly,  and  with  her  face 
grown  a  deadly  white :  "  Mrs.  Bell,  that  is  Mr.  Melville 
coming  down  the  hill.  I  wish  to  speak  a  word  or  two  to 
him  by  himself." 

"Oh,  yes,  yes;  why  not?"  said  Mrs.  Bell,  cheerfully. 
"  I'm  just  going  indoors  to  put  a  bit  string  round  the 
flowers  for  ye.  And  there's  a  wee  bit  basket  too,  ye  maun 
take  ;  I  made  few  a  sweets,  and  comfits,  and  such  things  for 
ye  last  night,  that'll  help  to  amuse  ye  oa  the  journey." 

She  did  not  hear;  she  was  regarding  him  as  he  ap- 
proached. His  features  were  as  pale  as  her  own  ;  his  lips 
were  thin  and  white.  When  he  came  to  her  he  stood  before 
her  with  his  eyes  cast  down  like  one  guilty.  The  pallor  of 
his  face  was  frightful. 

"  I  have  come  because  you  sent  for  me,"  he  said.  "  But 
there  is  nothing  you  can  say  to  me  that  I  have  not  said  to 
myself." 

"  Do  you  think  I  have  come  to  reproach  you  ?    No.     It 


YOLANDE.  288 

18  I  who  have  to  bear  the  blame,"  she  answered,  with 
apparent  calmness.  Then  she  added  :  '-'•  1 — I  sent  for  you 
because  I  could  not  go  away  without  a  word  of  good-by." 

Here  she  stopped,  fearful  that  her  self-possession  would 
desert  her.  Her  hands  were  tightly  clinched,  and  uncon- 
sciously she  was  nervously  fingering  lier  engagement  ring. 

"  I  do  not  see,"  she  said,  speaking  in  a  measured  way, 
as  if  to  make  sure  she  should  not  break  down,  "why  the 
truth  should  not  be  said  between  us — it  is  the  last  time. 
I  did  not  know ;  you  did  not  know  ;  it  was  all  a  misfortune  ; 
but  1  ought  to  have  known — I  ought  to  have  guarded  my- 
self :  it  is  I  who  am  to  blame.  Well,  if  I  have  to  suffer,  it 
is  no  matter  ;  it  is  you  that  I  am  sorry  for — " 

"  Yolande,  I  cannot  have  you  talk  like  that  !  "  he  ex- 
claimed. 

"  One  moment,"  she  said — and  strangely  enough  her 
French  accent  seemed  more  marked  in  her  speech,  perhaps 
because  she  was  not  thinking  of  any  accent.  "One 
moment.  When  I  am  gone  away,  do  not  think  that  I 
regret  having  met  you  and  known  you.  It  has  been  a 
misfortune  for  you ;  for  me,  no.  It  has  been  an  honor  to 
me  that  you  were  my  friend,  and  an  education  also ;  you 
have  shown  me  what  this  one  or  that  one  may  be  in  the 
world ;  I  had  not  known  it  before ;  you  made  me  expect 
better  things.  It  was  you  who  showed  me  what  I  siiould 
do.  Do  not  think  that  I  shall  forget  what  I  owe  you : 
wliatever  happens,  I  will  try  to  think  of  what  you  would 
expect  from  me,  and  that  will  be  my  ambition.  I  wished  to 
say  this  to  you  before  I  went  away,"  said  she,  and  now 
her  lingers  were  trembling  somewhat,  despite  her  enforced 
calmness.  "  And  also  that — that,  if  one  can  not  retrieve 
the  past,  if  one  has  the  misfortune  to  bring  suffering  on — " 
"  Yolande,  Yolande,"  said  he,  earnestly,  and  he  looked 
up  and  looked  into  her  eyes,  "do  not  speak  of  it — do  not 
think  of  it  any  more  ?  Put  it  behind  you.  You  are  no  longer 
a  girl ;  you  are  a  woman  ;  you  have  a  woman's  duties  before 
you.  Whatever  is  past,  let  that  be  over  and  gone.  If  any 
one  is  to  blame,  it  has  not  been  you.  Look  before  you ;  forget 
what  is  behind.  Do  you  know  that  it  is  not  a  light  matter 
you  have  undertaken  ?  " 

He  was  firmer  than  she  was ;  he  regarded  her  calmly, 
though  still  his  face  was  of  a  ghastly  paleness. 

She  hesitated  for  a  moment  or  two ;  then  she  glanced 
around. 


284  YOLANDE. 

"  I  wish  you  to — to  give  me  a  flower,"  she  said,  "  that 
I  may  take  It  with  rae.'' 

"  No,"  he  said  at  once.  "  No.  Forget  everything  that 
has  happened  here,  except  the  duty  you  owe  to  others." 

"  That  I  have  deserved,"  she  said,  in  a  low  voice. 
«  Good-by." 

She  held  out  her  hand.  He  took  it  and  held  it ;  and 
there  was  a  great  compassion  in  his  eyes.  To  her  they 
seemed  glorified  eyes,  the  eyes  of  a  saint,  full  of  a  sad  and 
yearning  pity. 

*'  Yolande,"  said  he — and  the  tones  of  his  voice  seemed 
to  reach  her  very  heart — "  I  have  faith  in  you.  I  shall  hear 
of  you.  Be  worthy  of  yourself.  Now,  God  bless  you,  and 
good-by  ! " 

^^  Adieu  I  adieu  I''"'  she  murmured;  and  then,  white- 
faced  and  all  trembling,  but  still  dry-eyed  and  erect,  she 
got  through  the  house  somehow,  and  out  to  the  front, 
where  Mrs.  Bell  was  awaiting  her  by  the  side  of  the  dog- 
cart. 

When  she  had  driven  away,  Mrs.  Bell  remained  for  a 
minute  or  two  looking  after  the  departing  vehicle — and 
perhaps  rather  regretfully,  too,  for  she  had  taken  a  great 
liking  to  this  bright  young  English  lady  who  had  come  into 
these  wilds ;  but  presently  she  was  recalled  from  her 
reveries  or  regrets  by  the  calling  of  Mr.  Melville.  She 
went  into  the  house  at  once. 

"  Now,  Mrs.  Bell,"  said  he  (  and  he  seemed  in  an  un- 
usual hurry),  "  do  you  think  one  of  the  girls  could  hunt 
out  for  me  the  waterproof  coat  that  has  the  strap  attached  to 
it  for  slinging  over  the  shoulders?  And  I  suppose  she 
could  pack  me  some  bit  of  cold  meat,  or  something  of  the 
kind,  and  half  a  loaf,  in  a  little  parcel?  " 

"Dear  me,  sir,  I  will  do  that  myseP  ;  but  where  are  ye 
going,  sir,  if  I  may  ask?" 

The  fact  was  that  it  was  so  unusual  for  Jack  Melville 
to  take  any  precautions  of  this  kind — even  when  he  was 
starting  for  a  long  day's  fishing  on  some  distant  moorlaiul 
loch — that  Mrs.  Bell  instanty  jumped  to  the  conclusion  that 
he  was  bent  on  some  very  desperate  excursion. 

"  Where  am  I  going  ?  "  he  said.  "  Why,  across  the 
hills  to  Kingussie,  to  catch  the  night  train  to  London." 


yOLANDE.  2ftf) 


CHAPTER  XXXy. 

*'DrR,  O  STILLES  THAL,  GRUSS  ZUM  LETZTENMAL  !  " 

The  train  roared  and  jingled  through  the  long  black 
night ;  and  always  before  her  shut  but  sleepless  eyes  rose 
vision  after  vision  of  that  which  she  was  leaving  forever  be- 
hind— her  girlhood.  So  quiet  and  beautiful,  so  ricli  in  af- 
fection and  kindness,  that  appeared  to  her  now  ;  slie  could 
Scarce  believe  tliat  it  was  herself  she  saw,  in  those  recurrent 
scenes,  so  glad  and  joyous  and  light-hearted.  That  was  all 
over.  Already  it  seemed  far  away.  She  beheld  herself 
walking  witii  her  father  along  the  still  valley,  in  the  nioou-- 
light ;  or  out  on  the  blue  waters  of  the  loch,  with  the  suu 
hot  on  the  gunwale  of  the  boat;  or  away  up  on  the  lonely 
hillsides,  where  the  neighborhood  of  the  watercourse«  was 
marked  by  a  wandering  blaze  of  gold — widespread  masses 
of  the  yellow  saxifrage;  or  seated  at  the  head  of  the  dinner 
table,  with  her  friends  laughing  and  talking ;  and  all  that 
life  was  grown  distant  now.  She  was  as  one  expelled  from 
paradise.  And  sometimes,  in  spite  of  herself,  in  spite  of 
all  her  wise  and  firm  resolves,  her  heart  would  utter  to  itself 
a  sort  of  cry  of  despair.  Why  did  he  refuse  her  that  bit  of 
a  flower  to  take  away  with  her?  It  was  so  small  a  thing. 
And  then  she  thought  of  the  look  in  his  eyes  as  he  regarded 
her ;  of  the  great  pity  and  tenderness  shining  there ;  and 
of  the  words  of  courage  and  hope  that  he  had  spoken  to  her 
as  she  left.  Well  she  would  show  herself  worthy  of  his  faith  in 
her.  She  would  force  away  from  her'those  idle  regrets  over  a 
too-beautiful  past.  A  new  life  was  opening  before  her ;  she 
was  content  to  accept  whatever  it  might  bring.  Who 
could  grudge  to  her  this  long,  last  review  of  the  life  she 
w  IS  leaving  forever  ?  Farewell — farewell!  She  was  not 
even  carrying  away  with  her  a  bit  of  a  leaf  or  a  blossom,  to 
j^waken  memories,  in  the  after-time,  of  the  garden  in  which 
she  had  so  often  stood  in  the  white  clear  air,  with  the  sun- 
light all  around  her.  Well,  it  was  better  so.  And  perhaps 
m  the  new  life  that  she  was  entering  she  would  find  such 
duties  and  occupations  as  would  effectually  prevent  the  re- 
currcjuce   of  this  long  night's  torture — this  vii' on-building 


286  YOLANDE. 

out  of  the  past,  this  inexplicable  yearning,  this  vain  stretch- 
ing out  of  the  hands  to  that  she  was  leaving  forever. 

Toward  morning  she  slept  a  little,  but  not  much  ;  how- 
ever, on  the  first  occasion  of  her  opening  her  eyes,  she  found 
that  the  gray  light  of  the  new  day  was  around  her.  For 
an  instant  a  shock  of  fear  overcame  her — a  sudden  sense  of 
helplessness  and  affnght.  She  was  so  strangely  situated  • 
she  was  drawing  near  the  great,  dread  city;  she  knew  not 
what  lay  before  her;  and  she  felt  so  much  alone.  Despite 
herself,  tears  began  to  trickle  down  her  face,  and  lier  lip& 
were  tremulous.  This  new  day  seemed  terrible,  and  sho 
was  helpless — and  alone. 

"  Dear  me,  Miss,"  said  Jane,  happening  to  wake  up  at 
this  moment,  "  what  is  the  matter?"  * 

"It  is  nothing,"  her  young  mistress  said.  "  I — I  liave 
scarcely  slept  at  all  these  two  nights,  and  I  feel  rather  weak, 
and — and — not  very  w^ell.     It  is  no  matter." 

But  the  tears  fell  faster  now,  and  this  sense  of  weakness 
and  helplessness  completely  overpowered  her.  She  fairly 
broke  down. 

"  I  will  tell  you  what  it  is,  "  she  sobbed,  in  a  kind  of 
recklessness  of  despair.  "  It  is  that  I  have  undertaken  to 
do  what  is  beyond  me.  I  am  not  fit  for  it.  They  have 
asked  .  too  much  of  me.  It  is  beyond  what  I  can  do. 
What  can  I  do  ? — when  I  feel  that  I  should  be  happy  if  1 
could  only  lie  down  and  die,  and  be  the  cause  of  no  more 
trouble  to  any  one !" 

The  maid  was  very  much  startled  by  these  words,  though 
she  little  guessed  the  cause  of  them.  And  indeed  her  young 
mistress  very  speedily — and  by  a  force  of  will  that  she  did 
not  suspect  herself  of  possessing — put  an  end  to  this  half- 
hysterical  fit.  She  drew  herself  uj)  erect,  she  dried  her 
eyes'  and  she  told  Jane  that  as  soon  as  they  got  to  the  hotel 
she  would  go  to  bed  for  an  hour  or  two  and  try  to  get  some 
sleep  ;  for  that  really  this  long  fit  of  wakefulness  had  filled 
her  head  with  all  sorts  of  ridiculous  fancies. 

And  that  was  the  last  sign  of  weakness.  Pale  h*r  face 
might  be,  as  she  set  about  the  undertaking  of  this  duty  ; 
but  she  had  steeled  her  heart.  Fortunately,  when  they  got 
to  the  hotel,  and  when  she  had  had  some  breakfast,  she  was 
able  to  snatch  an  hour  or  two's  sound  and  refreshing  sleep 
in  the  silence  of  her  own  room  ;  and  when  she  re-appeared 
even  the  dull-witted  Jane  noticed  how  much  better  and 
brisker  she  looked.     Nay,  there   was  even  a  kind  of  hope* 


YOLANDE,  287 

fulness  and  clieerfiiliiess  in  the  way  she  set  about  making 
her  preparations.  And  first  of  all  she  told  Jane  fully  and 
frankly  of  the  errand  on  which  she  had  come  to  London  ; 
and  this,  as  it  turned  out,  was  a  wise  thing  to  do  ;  for  the 
good  Jane  regarded  the  whole  situation,  and  her  probable 
share  in  the  adventure,  with  a  stolid  self-sufficiency  which 
was  as  good  as  any  courage.  Oh,  she  said,  she  was  not  afiaid 
of  such  people  !  Probably  she  knew  better  how  to  manage 
them  than  a  young  lady  would.  They  wouldn't  frighten 
her!  And  slie  not  obscurely  hinted  that,  if  there  was  any 
kind  of  incivility  going  on  she  was  quite  capable  of  giving 
as  good  as  she  got. 

Yolande  had  resolved,  among  other  things,  that,  while 
she  would  implicitly  obey  Mr.  Melville's  instructions  about 
making  that  appeal  to  her  mother  entirely  unaided  and  un- 
accompanied, she  might  also  prudently  follow  her  father's 
advice  and  get  such  help  as  was  necessary,  with  regard  to 
preliminary  arrangements,  from  his  solicitors,  more  espe- 
cially as  she  had  met  one  of  those  gentlemen  two  or  three 
times,  and  so  far  was  on  friendly  terms  with  him.  Accord- 
ingly, one  of  the  first  things  she  did  was  to  get  into  a  cab, 
accompanied  by  her  maid,  and  drive  to  the  offices  of  Law- 
rence &  Lang,  in  Lincoln's  Inn  Fields.  She  asked  for  Mr. 
Lang,  and  by  and  by  was  shown  into  that  gentleman's  room. 
He  was  a  tall,  elderly  person,  with  white  hair,  a  shre\Vd, 
thin  face,  and  humorous,  good-natured  snile. 

"Take  a  seat.  Miss  Winterbourne,"  said  he.  "Very 
lucky  you   came  now.     In   another   ten   minutes  I   should 

have  been     off   to     seek    you    at    the Hotel,    and   we 

should  have  crossed  each  other." 

"But  how  did  you  know  I  was  at  the Hotel!  "  she 

said,  with  a  stare  of  astonishment. 

"Oh,  we  lawyers  are  supposed  to  know  everytliing,"  he 
answered,  good-naturedly.  "  And  I  may  tell  you  that  I 
know  of  the  business  that  has  brought  you  to  London,  and 
that  we  shall  be  most  happy  to  give  you  all  the  assistance 
in  our  power." 

"  But  how  can  you  knowM  "  the  girl  said,  bewildered. 
"  It  was  only  the  day  before  yesterday  1  decided  to  go,  and 
it  w^as  only  this  morning  I  reached  London.  Did  my  papa 
write  to  you,  then,  witho  it  telling  me  !" 

"  My  dear  young  lady,  if  I  were  to  answer  your  questions 
vou  would  no  longer  believe  in  the  omniscience  of  lawyers," 
he  said,  with  his  grave  smile.     "  No,  no ;  you  must  assume 


288  YOLAXDE. 

tliat  Ave  kno\r  everything.  And  let  nio  tell  you  that  the 
step  you  are  taking,  though  it  is  a  bold  one,  deserves  to  be» 
successful ;  perhaps  it  will  be  successful  because  it  is  a  bold 
one.  I  hope  so.  But  you  must  be  prepared  for  a  shock. 
Your  mother  has  been  ill." 

•'  Ah?  "  said  Yolaude,  but  no  more.  She  held  her  hands 
olasped. 

"  I  say  she  has  been  ill,"  said  this  elderly  suave  person, 
■who  seemed  to  regard  the  girl  with  a  very  kindly  intei-est. 
"  Now  she  is  better.  Three  weeks  ago  my  clerk  found  her 
unable  to  sign  the  receipt  that  he  usually  brings  away 
witli  liim  ;  and  I  was  about  to  write  to  your  father,  when 
I  thought  I  would  wait  a  day  or  two  and  see  ;  and  fortu- 
nately she  got  a  little  better.  However,  you  must  be  pre- 
})ared  to  find  her  looking  ill ;  and — and — well,  I  was  going 
to  say  she  might  be  incapable  of  recognizing  you ;  but  I 
forgot.  Ixi  the  meantime  we  shall  be  pleased  to  be  of  every 
assistance  to  you  in  our  power;  in  fact,  we  have  been  in- 
structed to  consider  you  as  under  our  protection.  I  hope  you 
find  the — —Hotel  comfortable  !  " 

"  Oh  yes — oh  yes,"  Yolande  said,  absently ;  she  Avas  not 
thinking  of  any  hotel ;  she  was  thinldng  in  what  way  these 
people  could  be  of  help  to  her. 

"  Of  course,"  said  he,  "  when  you  go  to  see  your  mother, 
I  could  send  some  one  with  you  if  you  wished  it ;  or  I  would 
go  with  you  myself,  for  that  matte)* ;  but  I  understand  that 
is  not  considered  desirable." 

"  Oh  no,  "  said  she  ;  *'  I  must  go  alone.  I  wish  to  see 
her  alone." 

"  As  for  your  personal  safety,"  said  he,  "  that  need  not 
alarm  you.  Your  friends  may  be  anxious  about  you,  no 
doubt ;  but  the  very  worst  that  can  happen  will  be  a  little 
impertinence.  You  won't  mind  thati  shall  have  a  policeman 
in  plain  clothes  standing  by ;  if  your  maid  should  consider 
it  necessary,  she  can  easily  summon  him  to  you.  She  will  be 
inside  ;  he  outside;  so  you  have  nothing  to  fear." 

"  Then  you  know  all  how  it  has  been  arranged  !  "  she  ex 
claimed. 

"  Why,  yes  ;  it  is  our  business  here  to  know  every- 
thing," said  he,  laughing,  "  though  we  are  not  allowed 
sometimes  to  say  how  we  came  by  the  information.  Now 
what  else  can  we  do  for  you  ?  Let  me  see.  If  your  poor 
mother  will  go  with  you,  you  migiit  wish  to  take  her  to 
some  quiet  seaside  place,  perhaps,  for  her  health?  " 


YOLANDE.  289 

"  Oh  yes  ;  I  wish  to  take  her  away  from  Loudon  at  once," 
Yoland*  said,  eagerly. 

"  Well,  a  client  of  ours  has  just   left   some  lodgings  at 
Worthing — in  fact,  we  have   recommended  them  on  one  or 
two  occasions,  and  we  have  been  told  that   they   gave  sat- 
isfaction.    The  rooms  are   clean    and  nicely   furnished,  and 
the   landlady    is    civil    and     obliging.      She     is   a   gentle- 
woman,  in  short,  in    reduced   circumstances    but  not  over- 
reaching.     I  think  you  might  safely  take  the  rooms." 
"  Will  you  give  me  the  address,  if  you  please  ?  " 
He  wrote  the  address  on  a  card  and  gave  it  to  her. 
"  But  dr^  not    trouble   to  write,"  said  he  ;    "  we  will  do 
that  for  you,  and  arrange  terms." 

"But  1  must  go  down  to  see  the  place  first,"  said  she. 
**  I  can  go  there  and  get  back  in  one  day — to-morrow — 
can  I  not  ?  " 

"  J^ut  why  should  you  give  yourself  so  much  trouble  ?  "  he 
Sdid. 

"  What  a  daughter  can  do  for  her  own  mother,  that  is 
not  called  trouble,"  she  answered,  simply.  "Is  Worthing 
a  large  town  ?  " 

"No  ;  not  a  large  town.  It  is  one  of  the  smaller  water- 
hig-places." 

"  But  one  could  hire  there  a  pony  and  a  pony-chaise  ?" 
•"  Undoubtedly." 
"  And  could  one  take  the  rooms  and  hire  the  pony  and 
pony-chaise  conditionally  ?" 

"  I  don't  quite  understand  you." 

"  Could  one  say,  *  Yes,  1  shall  want  these  most  likely  ; 
but  if  I  telegraph  to  you  to-morrow  or  next  day  that  I  do 
not  want  them,  then  there  is  no  bargain,  and  there  is  nothing 
to  pay?" 

"  I  have  no  doubt  they  would  make  that  arrangement 
with  you.  That  would  be  merely  reserving  the  refusal  for 
you  for  a  certain  number  of  days." 

**  Tw^o  days  at  the  most,"  said  Yolande,  who  seemed  to 
have  studied  this  matter — even  as  she  used  to  study  the  dfv 
tails  of  her  future  housekeeping  at  Allt-nam-Ba  wlien  she 
was  sitting  on  the  deck  of  the  great  steamer  with  the  Med 
iterranean  Sea  around  her. 

"  May  I  presume  to  ask,"  said  he,  "  whether  you  are  suffi- 
ciently supplied  with  money  ?  We  have  no  instructions 
from  your  f.-itl»er  ;  but  we  shall  be  pleased  if  you  consider 
us  yonr  bankers." 


290  YOLANDE. 

"  I  have  only  eight  or  nine  pounds,"  said  she,  "  in 
money  ;  but  also  I  have  three  blank  checks  which  my  papa 
signed  :  that  is  enough,  is  it  not  ?  " 

"  Well,  yes,  1  should  say  that  was  enough,"  he  ri> 
marked,  with  a  perfectly  subdued  irony.  "  But  those  blank 
checks  are  dangerous  things,  if  you  will  permit  me  to  say 
so.  I  would  strongly  advise  you,  my  dear  Miss  Winter- 
bourne,  to  destroy  them,  and  to  send  to  us  for  such  sums 
ns  you  may  want  from  time  to  time.  That  would  be  much 
tlie  safer  plan.  And  if  there  is  any  other  particular  in 
Avhich  we  can  be  of  the  least  assistance  to  you,  you  will 
please  let  us  fcaow.  We  can  always  send  some  one  to  you, 
and  a  telegram  from  Worthing  only  costs  a  shilling!  As  we 
have  received  such  strict  •  injunctions  about  looking  after 
you,  we  must  keep  up  our  character  as  your  guardian." 

"  I  thought  you  said  my  papa  had  not  sent  you  any 
instructions,"  Yoland  exclaimed  again. 

"  About  the  check,  my  dear  young  lady,"  said  he 
promptly. 

"  Then  I  wish  you  to  tell  me  something  of  those  people 
— I  wish  to  know  who  and  what  they  are." 

"  I  think  Miss  Winterbourne,"said  he,  gravely,  "that  the 
information  would  not  edify  you  much.'* 

"  But  I  wish  to  know,"  said  she  ;  "  I  wish  to  know  the 
sort  of  people  one  must  expect  to  find  there." 

"  The  facts  are  simple,  then.  He  is  a  drunken  scoundrel, 
to  put  the  matter  shortly.  I  believe  he  once  in  a  fairly 
good  position — I  rather  think  he  was  called  to  the  Bar  ;  but 
he  never  practised.  Betting  on  races,  and  drink,  finished 
him  between  them.  Then  he  tried  to  float  a  bit  by  marrying 
the  proprietress  of  a  public-house — an  illiterate  woman  :  but 
he  drank  through  her  money,  and  the  public-house,  and 
everything.  Now  they  are  supposed  to  let  out  this  house 
ill  rooms  ;  but  as  that  would  involve  trouble,  my  own  im- 
])ression  is  they  have  no  lodgers  but  your  mother,  and  are 
content  to  live  on  the  very  ample  allowance  that  we  are 
instructed  to  pay  her  monthly.  Well,  no  doubt  they  will 
bo  very  angry  if  you  succeed  in  taking  away  from  them 
tlieir  source  of  'ncome  ;  and  the  man,  if  he  is  drunk,  may 
be  impertinent ,  but  that  is  all  you  have  to  fear.  I  would 
strongly  advise  you  to  go  in  the  evening.  Then  the 
])resence  of  the  policeman  in  the  street  will  not  arouse  sus- 
|!ii(;iou  ;  and  if  there  should  be  any  trifling  disturbance,  it 
will    be   less    likely    to    attract    the    notice   of  bystanders. 


YOLANDE.  291 

Might  I  ask — please  forgive  me  if  I  am  impertinent" — lie 
Bnid,  "  b«t  I  have  known  all  about  this  Bad  story  from  the 
beginning,  and  I  am  naturally  curious — may  I  ask  whelhei 
the  idea  of  your  going  to  your  mother,  alone,  and  taking 
her  awav  with  you,  alone,  was  a  suggestion  of  your 
father's  ?*" 

'-'  It  was  not,  "  said  she,  with  downcast  eyes.  "  It  was  the 
suggestion  of  a  friend  whose  acquaintanceship — whose 
friendship — we  made  in  the  Highlands — a  Mr.  Melville." 

"  All,"  said  he,  and  he  glanced  at  a  card  that  was  lying 
before  him  on  the  table.  "  It  is  bold — bold,"  he  added, 
musitigly.  "  One  thing  is  certain,  everything  else  has  failed. 
My  dear  young  lady,  I  am  afraid,  however  successful  you 
may  be,your  life  for  some  time  to  come  will  not  be  as  happy 
and  cheerful  as  one  could  wish  for  one  of  your  age." 

'*  That  1  am  not  particular  about, "  said  Yolande  ab- 
sently. 

"  However,  in  a  matter  of  this  kind,  it  is  not  ray  place 
to  advise:  I  am  a  servant  only.  You  are  going  down  to 
Worthing  to-morrow.  I  will  give  you  a  list  of  trains  there 
and  back,  to  save  you  the  trouble  of  hunting  through  a  time- 
table. You  will  be  l>ack  in  the  evening.  Now  do  you 
think  it  desirable  that  I  should  get  this  man  whom  I  mean 
to  employ  in  your  service  to  hang  about  the  neighborhood 
of  the  house  to-morrow,  just  to  get  some  notion  of  the 
comings  and  goings  of  the  people  " 

"  I  think  it  would  be  most  desirable,"  Yolande  said. 

"  Very  well ;  it  shall  be  done.  Let  rae  see  :  this  is 
Thursday;  to-morrow  you  go  to  Worthing.  Could  you 
call  here  on  Saturday  to  hear  what  the  man  has  to  say,  or 
shall  he  wait  on  you  at  the Hotel  ?  " 

"  I  would  rather  call  here,"  she  said. 

"  Very  well ;  and  what  hour  would  be  most  conve- 
nient?" 

"  Ten— is  it  too  soon  ?  " 

"  Not  at  all,"  said  he,  jotting  down  a  memorandum  on 
a  diary  before  him.  "Now  one  thing  more.  Will  you 
oblige  me  by  burning  those  checks?  I  will  write  to  your 
father,  and  take  the  responsibility." 

"  If  you  think  it  right  I  will,"  she  said,  "  as  soon  as  I  go 
back  to  *t he  hotel." 

"And  here"  he  continued  going  to  a  safe  and  fetching 
out  some  Bank  of  England  notes,  "  is  £25  in  £5  notes  ;  it  is 
not  so  serious  a  matter  if  one   of   these   should  go   astray. 


292  YOLANDE. 

Please  i)ut  these  in  your  purse,  Miss  Winterbourne ;  and 
when  you  want  any  further  sums  you  have  only  to  write 
to  us." 

She  thanked  him,  and  rose,  and  bade  him  good-by. 
"  Good-by  JMiss  Winterbourne,"  said  he,  in  a  very 
friendly  way  ;  "  and  please  to  remember  that  although,  of 
course,  all  the  resources  of  our  firm  are  at  your  disposal  as 
a  matter  of  business,  still  I  hope  you  may  count  on  us  for 
Bomething  more  than  that,  if  there  is  any  way  we  can  help 
you — I  mean  in  a  private  and  personal  way.  If  any  such  oc- 
casion should  arise,  please  remember  that  your  father  and  I 
were  friends  together  in  Slagpool  five  and  thirty  years  ago, 
and  anything  that  I  can  do  for  his  daughter  will  be  a  great 
pleasure  to  me." 

As  she  left  she  thought  that  London  did  not  seem  to  be, 
after  all,  such  a  terrible  place  to  be  alone  in.  Here  was 
protection,  guardianship,  friendsliip,  and  assistance  put  all 
around  her  at  the  very  outset.  There  were  no  more  qualms 
or  sinkings  of  the  heart  now.  When  she  got  outside  it 
suddenly  occurred  to  her  that  she. would  like  to  go  away  in 
search  of  the  street  in  which  her  mother  lived,  and  rec- 
onnoitre the  house.  Might  there,  not  be  some  chance  of  her 
coming  out  ? — the  day  was  fairly  fine  for  London.  And 
how  strange  to  see  her  mother  walking  before  her.  She 
felt  sure  she  should  recognize  her.  And  then — perhaps — 
what  if  one  were  suddenly  to  discard  all  preparations  ?  what 
if  she  were  to  be  quickly  caught,  and  carried  off,  aud  trans- 
ferred to  the  safety  of  the Hotel,  before  any  one   could 

interfere  ? 

But  when  she  had  ordered  the  cabman  to  drive  to  Ox- 
ford Circus,  and  got  into  tlie  cab,  along  with  Jane,  she 
firmly  put  away  from  her  all  these  wild  possibilities.  Tliis 
undertaking  was  too  serious  a  matter  to  be  imperiled  by 
any  rashness.  She  might  look  at  the  street,  at  the  house  at 
the  windows ;  but  not  if  her  mother  were  to  come  out  and 
pass  her  by  touching  her  skirt  even,  would  she  declare  lier- 
self.  She  was  determined  to  be  worthy  of  the  trust  that 
had  been  placed  in  her. 

At  Oxford  Circus  they  dismissed  the  cab,  and  walked 
some  short  distance  until  they  found  the  place  they  were  in 
search  of — a  dull,  respectable-looking,  quiet,  misty  little 
thoroughfare,  1}  ing  just  back  from  the  continuous  roar  of 
Oxford  Street.  She  passed  the  house  once  "»r  twice,  too, 
kuowinc:  it  bv  its  number,  but  tliere  was   no         ^   of  life  in 


YOLANDE,  293 

it.  The  small,  curtained  windows  showed  no  one  sitting 
there  or  looking  out.  She  waited  ;  went  to  distant  points, 
and  watched ;  but  save  for  an  occasional  butcher's  boy  or 
postman  the  street  remained  uniformly  empty.  Then  slie 
remembered  that  it  was  drawing  towards  the  afternoon,  and 
that  poor  Jane  was  probably  starving  ;  so  she  called  anotlier 
cab,  and  drove  to  the  hotel. 

Next  day  was  a  busy  day — after  that  life  of  quietude  far 
away  among  the  hills.  She  got  to  Worthing  about  twelve, 
and  went  straight  to  the  lodgings  that  had  been  recom- 
mended by  Mr.  Lang,  which  she  found  in  one  of  tiie  bright 
and  cheerful-looking  terraces  fronting  the  sea.  She  was 
much  pleased  with  the  rooms,  which  were  on  the  first  floor, 
the  sitting-room  opening  on  to  a  balcony  prettily  decorated 
with  flowers  ;  and  she  also  took  rather  a  fancy  to  the  little 
old  lady  herself,  who  was  at  first  rather  anxious  and  nerv- 
ous, but  who  grew  more  friendly  under  the  influence  of  Yo- 
lande's  calm  and  patronizing  gentleness.  Under  the  con- 
ditions mentioned  to  Mr.  Lang  she  took  the  rooms,  and 
gave  her  name  and  address  and  her  father's  name  and  ad- 
dress, adding,  with  the  smallest  touch  of  pride. 

"  Of  course  you  know  him  by  reputation." 

*'  Oh  yes,  indeed,"  somewhat  vaguely  said  this  timid, 
pretty  little  old  lady,  who  was  the  widow  of  a  clergyman, 
and  whose  sole  and  whole  notion  of  politics  was  that  the 
Radicals  and  other  evil-disposed  persons  of  that  kind  were 
plotting  the  destruction  of  the  Church  of  England,  which 
to  her  meant  nothing  more  nor  less  than  the  swallowing 
up  ef  the  visible  universe.  "  He  is  in  Parliament,  is  lie 
not?" 

"  Yes,"  said  Yolande  ;  "  and  some  peo]>le  wish  he  were 
not  there.  He  is  a  little  too  honest  and  outspoken  for 
them." 

Next  she  went  to  a  livery-stable  keei)er,  and  asked 
about  his  terms  for  the  hire  of  a  pony  and  pony-can-iage. 
These  terms  seemed  to  her  reasonable  but  they  were  not; 
for  she  was  judging  them  by  the  Inverness  standard,  where- 
as that  standard  is  abnormally  high,  for  the  reason  that  the 
Inverness  livery-stable  keepers  have  demands  made  on 
them  for  only  two  or,  at  most,  three  months  in  the  year, 
and  are  quite  content,  for  the  other  nine  months,  to  lend 
out  their  large  stock  of  horses  for  nothing  to  any  of  the 
neighboring  lairds  or  farmers  who  will  take  them  and  feed 
them.     However,  the  matter  was  not  a  serious  one. 


294  YOLANDE. 

The  next  morning  slie  called  at  the  office  of  Messrs. 
Lawrence  <fc  Lang,  heard  what  tlie  man  who  had  been 
posted  in  that  little  thoroughfare  had  to  say,  and  arranged 
that  she  should  go  alone  to  the  house  that  evening  at  eight 
o'clock.  She  had  no  longer  in  her  eyes  the  pretty  timidity 
and  bashfulness  of  a  child  ;  she  bore  herself  with  the  <ie- 
meanor  of  a  woman. 


CHAPTER  XXXVL 

AN   ABDUCTION. 


A  FEW  minutes  before  eight  on  that  evening,  in  the 
thoroughfare  just  mentioned,  a  short,  thickset  man  was 
standing  by  a  lam}>post,  either  trying  to  read,  or  pretending 
to  read,  an  evening  newspaper  by  the  dull,  yellow  light. 
Presently  a  hansom  cab  drove  up  to  the  corner  of  the 
street  and  stopped  there,  and  a  taller  and  younger  man  got 
out  and  came  along  to  the  lamp-post. 

**  I  would  go  a  dozen  yards  nearer,"  said  the  new- 
comer. 

"  Very  well,  sir,"  said  the  other.  And  then  he  added, 
"  The  master  of  the  house  has  just  gone  out  sir." 

"  So  much  the  better,"  said  the  younger  man,  carelessly. 
"  There  will  be  the  less  bother — probably  none  at  all.  But 
you  keep  a  little  bit  nearer  after  the  young  lady  has  gone  in- 
to the  house." 

"  Very  well,  sir." 

The  new-comer  apparently  did  not  consider  that  any 
gi-eat  vigilance  or  surveillance  would  be  necessary,  but  all 
the  same,  while  he  still  left  the  hansom  at  the  corner  of  the 
street,  he  walked  along  a  few  yards  further  (glancing  iu 
passing  at  the  windows  of  one  of  the  houses),  until  he  came 
to  a  narrow  entry  leading  down  into  a  courtyard,  and  there 
a  step  or  two  into  the  gloom  of  the  little  passage  effectually 
hid  him  from  sight. 

Punctually  at  eight  o'clock  a  four-wheeled  cab  appeared 
and  drew  up,  and  Yolande  got  out,  followed  by  her  maid. 
Without  delay  or  hesitation  she  crossed  the  pavement  and 
knocked  at  the  door.     A  girl  of  about  fifteen  opened  it. 


YOLANDE.  295 

•*  Is  Mrs.  Wintcrbourne  within  ?"  said  Yolande,  calmly. 

The  girl  eyed  her  doubtfully.     "  Y — yes,  miss." 

"  I  wish  to  see  her,  if  you  please." 

"  Y — yes,  miss;  if  you  wait  for  a  moment  I'll  go  and 
tell  missis." 

**  No,"  said  Yolande,  promptly  and  she  passed  into  the 
lobby  without  further  ado — "  no,  I  will  not  trouble  your 
mistress.  Please  show  me  where  I  shall  nnd  Mrs.  Winter- 
bourne;  that  is  enough." 

Now  the  girl  looked  frightened,  for  the  two  strangers 
were  inside,  and  she  glanced  behind  her  to  see  whether  her 
mistress  were  not  coming  to  her  relief.  Moreover,  this  tall 
young  lady  had  an  imperious  way  with  her  ? 

"  Which  is  her  room  ?  " 

"  T — that  is  her  sitting-room,"  stammered  the  girl.  In- 
deed, they  were  all  standing  just  outside  the  door  of  it. 

"  Thank  you,"  she  said,  and  she  put  her  hand  on  the 
handle  of  the  door.  "  Jane,  wait  for  me."  The  next  moment 
she  was  inside  the  room,  and  the  door  shut  behind  her. 

A  spasm  of  fear  caught  her  and  struck  her  motionless. 
Someone  sat  there-^some  one  in  a  chair — idly  looking  into 
the  fire,  a  newspaper  flung  aside.  And  what  horror  might 
not  have  to  be  encountered  now!  She  had  been  warned; 
she  had  prepared  herself  ;  but  still — 

Then  the  next  moment  a  great  flood  of  pity  and  joy  and 
gratitude  filled  her  heart  ;  for  the  face  that  was  turned  to 
her — that  regarded  her  with  a  mild  surprise — though  it  was 
emaciated  and  pallid,  was  not  unlovable ;  and  the  eyes 
were  large  and  strange  and  melancholy.  This  poor  lady 
rose,  and  with  a  gentle  courtesy  regarded  her  visitor,  and 
said, 

"  I  beg  your  pardon  ;  I  did  not  hear  you  come  into  the 
room." 

What  a  strange  voice — hollow  and  distant  ;  and  it  was 
chmr  that  she  was  looking  at  this  new-comer  only  with  a 
vague,  Ii;ilf-])leased  curiosity,  not  with  any  natural  wonder 
at  such  an  intrusion.  Yolande  could  not  speak.  She  for- 
got all  that  she  had  meant  to  say.  Her  heart  seemed  to  be 
choking  her. 

"  Mother,"  she  managed  to  say  at  length,  "  you  do  not 
know,  then,  that  I  am  your  daughter." 

"  My  Yolande  I  "  she  said — and  she  retreated  a  step,  as 
if  in  fear.     "  You  are  not  my  Yolande — you  !  " 

She  regarded  her  apparently  with  some  strange  kind  of 


YOLANDE. 

dread — as  if  she  were  an  apparition.  There  was  no  wonder, 
or  joy,  or  sudden  impulse  of  affection. 

"You — you  cannot  be  my  Yolande — my  daughter  !" 

"  But  indeed  I  am,  mother,"  said  the  girl,  with  the  tears 
running  down  her  face  in  spite  of  herself.  "  Ah  !  it  is  cruel 
that  I  should  come  to  you  as  a  stranger — that  you  should 
have  no  word  of  kindness  for  me.  But  no  matter.  We 
shall  soon  make  up  for  all  these  years.  Mother,  I  have  come 
to  take  you  away.  You  must  no  longer  be  here  alone.  You 
will  come  with  me,  will  you  not  !  " 

The  pale,  emaciated,  hollow-voiced  woman  came  nearer 
now,  and  took  Yolande's  hand  and,  regarded  her  with  a 
kind  of  vague,  pleased  curiosity  and  kindness. 

"  And  you  are  really  my  Yolande,  then  ?  How  tall  you 
are  !  and  beautiful  too — like  an  angel.  When  I  have  thought 
of  you  It  was  not  like  this.  What  beautiful  beautiful  hair ! 
and  so  straight  you  have  grown,  and  tall !  So  they  have 
sent  you  to  me  at  last.     But  it  is  too  late  now — too  late.'* 

"  No,  no,  mother  it  is  not  too  kite.  You  will  come 
away  with  me,  will  you  not — now — at  once?  " 

The  other  shook  her  head  sadly ;  and  yet  it  was  ob- 
vious that  she  was  taking  more  and  more  interest  in  her 
daughter — regarding  her  from  top  to  toe,  admiring  her 
dress  even,  and  all  the  time  holding  her  hand. 

"  Oh  no,  I  cannot  go  away  with  you,"  she  said.  "  It  is 
not  for  you  to  be  hampered  with  one  like  me.  I  am  con- 
tent. I  am  at  peace  here.  I  am  quite  happy  here.  You 
are  young,  rich,  beautiful ;  you  will  have  a  beautiful  life  ; 
everything  beautiful  round  you.  It  is  so  strange  to  look  at 
you !  And  who  sent  you  ?  The  lawyers,  I  suppose. 
What  do  thev  want  now?  Why  do  they  not  let  me 
alone?" 

She  let  the  girl's  hand  fall,  and  turned  away  dejectedly, 
and  sank  down  into  the  easy-chair  again  with  a  sigh.  But 
Yolande  was  mistress  of  herself  now.  She  went  forward, 
put  her  hand  upon  her  mother's  shoulder,  and  said,  firmly  : 

"  Mother,  I  will  not  allow  you  to  remain  here.  It  is  not 
a  fit  place  for  you.  I  have  come  to  take  you  away  myself ; 
the  lawyers  have  not  sent  me ;  they  want  nothing.  Dear 
mother,  do  make  up  your  mind  to  come  away  with  me — 
now ! " 

Her  entreaty  was  urgent,  for  she  could  hear  distinctly 
that  there  were  some  "  high  words  "  being  bandied  in   the 


YOLAA'DE.  297 

lobby,  and  she  wished  to  get  her  mother  away  without  any 
unseemly  squabble. 

"  Do,  mother  !  Everytliing  is  ready.  You  and  I  will  go 
away  together  to  Worthing,  and  the  sea  air  and  the  country 
drives  will  soon  make  you  well  again.  I  have  got  everything 
prepared  for  you — pretty  rooms  fronting  the  sea; and  a 
balcony  where  you  can  sit  and  read ;  and  I  have  a  pony- 


carriage  to  take  you  for   drives  through   the  lanes.     A\ 
now,  to  think  it  is  your  own  daughter  who  is  asking  you ! 
You  cannot  refuse!     You  cannot  refuse  !" 

She  had  risen  again  and  taken  Yolande's  hand,  but  her 
look  was  hesitating,  and  bewildered. 

"  Tiiey  will  be  angry,"  said  she,  timidly ;  for  now  tiie 
dissension  without  was  clearly  audible. 

"  Who,  then  ?  "  said  Tolande,  proudly.  "  You  will  leave 
them  to  me,  mother;  I  am  not  afraid.  Ah  if  you  saw  h<nv 
much  prettier  the  rooms  are  at  Worthing ! — yes  ;  and  no 
longer  you  will  have  to  sit  alone  by  yourself  in  the  evening. 
Come,  mother ! " 

At  this  moment  the  door  opened,  aud  a  short,  stout,  red- 
faced  black-haired  woman  made  her  appearance.  It  was 
clear  that  the  altercation  with  Jane  had  not  improved  her 
temper. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon  young  lady,"  said  she,  with  studied 
deference,  "  but  I  want  to  know  what  this  means." 

Yolande  turned  with  flashing  eyes. 

"  Leave  the  room  !  " 

For  a  second  the  woman  was  cowed  by  her  manner ;  but 
the  next  moment  she  had  bridled  up  again. 

**  Leave  the  room,  indeed  !  Leave  the  room — in  my  own 
house !  Not  until  I'm  paid.  And  what's  more,  the  poor 
dear  lady  isn't  going  to  be  taken  away  against  her  will. 
She  knows  who  her  friends  are.  She  knows  whoh  ivo 
looked  after  her  and  nursed  lier.  She  sha'n't  be  forced 
away  from  the  house  against  her  will,  I  warrant  you." 

"  Leave  the  room  this  instant,  or  I  will  send  for  a  police- 
man ! "  Yolande  said  ;  and  she  had  drawn  herself  u  ■  to 
her  full  height,  for  her  mother,  poor  creature,  was  timidly 
shrinking  behind  her. 

"A  policeman  !  Hoity-toity !  "  said  the  other,  with  her 
little  black  eyes  sparkling.  "You'd  better  have  no  police- 
man in  here.  It's  not  them  that  are  robbing  a  poor  woman 
that  should  call  for  a  policeman.  But  you  haven't  taken 
her  with  you  yet,  and  what's  more,  she  sha'n't  move  an  inch 
out  of  this  house  until  every  farthing  that's  owin^  to  us  is 


298  YOLANDE. 

f)aid — that  she  sha'ii't.  We're  not  going  to  be  robbed  so 
ong  as  there's  the  law.  Not  till  every  farthing  is  paid,  1 
warrant  you  ! — so  perhaps  you'll  let  the  poor  dear  lady 
alone,  and  leave  her  in  the  care  of  them  that  she  knows  to 
be  her  friends.  A  policeman,  indeed  !  Not  one  step  shall 
she  budge  until  every  farthing  of  her  debt  is  paid." 

Now  for  the  moment  Yolande  was  completely  discon 
certed.  It  was  a  point  she  had  not  foreseen  ;  it  was  a  point, 
therefore,  on  which  she  had  asked  no  counsel.  She  had 
been  assured  by  Mr.  Lang  that  she  had  nothing  to  fear  hi 
talking  away  her  mother  from  this  house — that  she  was  act- 
ing strictly  witliin  her  legal  rights.  But  how  about  this 
question  of  debt  ?  Could  they  really  detain  her  ?  Out- 
wardly, however,  she  showed  no  symptom  of  this  sudden 
doubt.     She  said  to  the  woman,  with  perfect  calmness, — 

"  Your  impertinence  will  be  of  little  use  to  you.  My 
mother  is  going  with  me  ;  I  am  her  guardian.  If  you  in- 
terfere with  me,  it  will  be  at  your  own  peril.  If  my  mother 
owes  you  anything,  it  will  be  paid." 

"  How  am  I  to  know  that?  Here  she  is,  and  here  she 
shall  remain  until  every  farthing  is  paid.  We  are  not  go- 
ing to  be  robbed  in  that  way." 

"I  tell  you  that  whatever  is  owing  to  you  will  be  paid," 
said  Yolande.  "  You  need  not  pretend  that  you  have  any 
fear  of  being  robbed  ;  you  know  you  will  be  paid.  And 
now  I  wish  you  to  tell  me  where  my  mother's  things  are. 
Which  is  her  bedroom  ?  " 

"  I'll  show  you  whether  you  can  ride  the  high  horse  over 
me  ! "  said  the  woman,  with  her  eyes  glittering  with  anger. 
*'  I'll  go  and  fetch  my  husband,  that  I  will."  And  the  next 
second  she  had  left  the  room  and  the  house  too,  running 
out  into  the  night  bareheaded. 

"  Now,  mother,"  said  Yolande,  quickly,  "  now  is  our 
chance  !  Where  are  your  things  ?  Oh,  you  must  not 
think  of  packing  anything;  we  will  send  for  what  you 
want  to-morrow.  But  do  you  really  owe  these  people  anv- 
thing?" 

"I  don't  know,"  said  her  mother,  who  seemed  to  have 
been  terrified  by  this  threat  on  the  part  of  the  woman. 

"  Well,  then,  where  is  your  hat  ? — where  is  your  shaw  ; 
Where  is  your  room  ?  " 

Almost  mechanically  she  opened  the  folding-doors  that 
formed  one  side  of  the  apartment,  disclosing  beyond  a 
bedroom.  Yoland  preceded  her,  picking  up  the  things  she 
wanted  and  helped  her  to  put  them  on. 


YOLANDE.  299 

"  Come,  now,  mother  ;  we  will  get  fvway  before  they 
come  back.  Oh  you  need  not  be  afraid.  Everything  is  ar- 
ranged for  you.     Tliere  is  a  cab  waiting  for  us  outside." 

"  Who  is  in  it  ?  "  said  the  mother,  drawing  back  with  a 
gesture  of  fear. 

"  Why,  no  one  at  all,"  said  Yolande,  cheerfully.  "  But 
Diy  maid  is  just  outside,  in  the  passage.  Come  along, 
mother." 

''  Where  are  we  going  ?  " 

"  To  the  hotel  where  I  am  staying,  to  be  sure.  Every- 
thing is  arranged  for  you  ;  we  are  to  have  supper  together 
— you  and  I — all  by  ourselv^es.  Will  that  please  you, 
mother  ?  " 

"  Wait  for  a  moment,  then." 

She  went  back  into  the  bedroom,  and  almost  instantly 
re-appeared,  glancing  at  Yolande  with  a  quick,  furtive  look 
that  the  girl  did  not  understand.     She  understood  after. 

"  Come  then." 

She  took  her  mother  by  the  hand  and  led  her  as  if  she 
was  a  child.  In  the  lobby  they  encountered  Jane,  and 
Jane  was  angry. 

"  Another  minute,  miss,  and  I  would  have  turned  her 
out  by  the  shoulders,"  she  said,  savagely. 

"  Oh,  it  is  all  right,"  said  Yolande,  briskly.  "  Every- 
thing is  quite  right.  Open  the  door  Jane  there's  a  good 
girl> 

They  had  got  out  from  the  house,  and  were  indeed 
crossing  the  pavement,  when  the  landlady  again  made  her 
appearance,  coming  hurriedly  up  in  the  company  of  a  man 
who  looked  like  (what  he  was)  a  butler  out  of  employment, 
and  who  was  obviously  drunk.  He  began  to  hector  and 
bully.     He  interposed  himself  between  them  and  the  cab. 

"  You  ain't  going  away  like  this.  You  ain't  going  to 
rob  poor  people  like  this  !  You  come  back  into  the  house 
until  we  settle  this  affair." 

Kow  Yolande's  only  aim  was  to  get  clear  of  the  man 
and  to  get  her  mother  put  into  the  cab  ;  but  he  stood  in  front 
of  her,  whichever  way  she  made  the  attempt ;  and  at  last* 
he  put  his  hands  on  her  arm  to  force  her  back  to  the 
house.  It  was  an  unfortunate  thing  for  him  that  he  did  so. 
There  was  a  sudden  crash  ;  the  man  reeled  back,  staggered, 
and  then  fell  like  a  log  on  the  pavement  ;  and  Yolande, 
bewildered  by  the  instantaneous  nature  of  the  whole  occur- 
ence, only  knew  that  something  like  a  black  shadow  had 


800  YOLANDE. 

gone  swiftly  by.  All  this  appeared  to  have  happened  in  a 
moment,  and  in  that  same  moment  liere  was  the  policemsAn 
in  plain  clothes,  whom  she  knew  by  sight. 

'*  What  a  shame  to  strike  the  poor  man  !  "  said  he  to 
the  landlady,  who  was  on  her  knees  shrieking  by  the  side 
of  her  husband.  "  But  he  ain't  much  hurt,  mum.  I'll  help 
him  indoors,  mum.  I'm  a  constable,  I  am.  I  wish  I  knew 
who  done  that  ;  I'd  have  the  law  again  him." 

As  he  uttered  these  words  of  consolation  he  regarded 
tlie  prostrate  man  with  perfect  equanimity,  and  a  glance 
over  his  shoulder  informed  him  that  in  the  confusion  Yo- 
lande,  and  her  mother,  and  the  maid,  had  got  into  the  cab 
and  driven  off.  Then  he  proceeded  to  raise  the  stupefied 
ex-builer,  wiio  certainly  had  received  a  "facer,"  but  who 
presently  came  to  himself  as  near  as'  the  fumes  of  rum 
would  allow.  Nay,  he  helped,  or  rather  steadied,  the  man 
into  the  house,  and  assured  the  excited  landlady  that  the 
law  would  find  out  who  had  committed  this  outrage ;  but 
he  refused  the  offer  of  a  glass  of  something  on  the  plea  that 
he  was  on  duty.  Then  he  took  down  the  number  of  the 
house  in  his  note-book,  and  left. 

As  he  walked  along  the  street  he  was  suddenly  accosted 
by  the  tall,  bi-oad- shouldered  young  man  who  had  disap- 
peared into  the  narrow  entry. 

"  Why  weren't  you  up  in  time  !  "  said  the  latter,  angrily. 

"  Lor,  sir,  you  was  so  quick ! " 

"  Is  that  drunken  idiot  hurt  ?" 

"  Well,  sir,  he  may  'ave  a  black  eye  in  the  morning — 
maybe  a  pair  on  'em.  But  'tain't  no  matter.  He'll  think  he 
run  agin  a  lamp-post.     He's  as  drunk  as  drunk." 

"  What  was  the  row  about  ?    I  couldn't  hear  a  word." 

"  Why,  sir,  they  said  as  the  lady  owed  them  something." 

"  Oh,  that  was  the  dodge.  However,  it's  all  settled  now 
— very  well  settled.  Let  me  see,  I  suppose  Lawrence  &  Lang 
pay  you  ?  " 

«  Yes,  sir." 

"  Well,  you  know,  I  don't  think  you  did  your  best. 
You  weren't  sharp  enough.  When  you  saw  that  drunken 
brute  seize  hold  of  the  young  lady's  arm  you  should  have 
been  there — on  the  spot — on  the  instant — •" 

"  Lor,  sir,  you  was  so  quick !  And  the  man  went  over 
like    a  ninepin." 

"  Well,  the  affair  is  satisfactory  as  it  stands,"  said  the 
vounfifer  and  taller  m.in,  "  and  I  am  well  satisfied,  and  so  I 


YOLANDE  301 

suppose  you  don't  mind  my  adding  a  sovereign  to  what 
Lawrence  &  Lang  will  give  you." 

"  Thank  ye,  sir,"  said  the  man,  touching  his  cap. 

*'  Here  you  are  then.     Good-night." 

"  Good-night,  sir." 

Then  the  younger  man  walked  on  to  the  corner  of  the 
street,  jumped  into  the  hansom  that  was  still  awaiting  him 
there,  called  through  the  trap-door  to  the  driver.  '*  United 
Universities,  corner  of  Suffolk  Street,  Pall  Mall,"  and  so 
was  driven  off. 

That  same  night  Yolande  wrote  the  following  letter  to 
her  father : — 

"  My  dear  Papa, — I  wish  that  I  might  write  this  letter 
in  French,  for  my  heart  is  so  full ;  but  I  know  you  would  not 
like  it,  so  I  will  do  my  best  in  English.  It  is  all  over  and 
settled  ;  m}-  mother  is  with  me — in  this  room  where  I  am 
writing — reading  a  little,  but  not  so  agitated  by  the  events 
of  the  day,  or  rather  this  evening,  that  one  might  expect. 
It  is  I  who  am  agitated:  please  forgive  ray  errors.  But,  oh, 
it  was  the  saddest  thing  ever  seen  in  the  world,  for  a 
mother  to  be  standing  opposite  her  own  daughter,  and  not 
caring  for  her — not  knowing  her.  We  were  two  strangers. 
But  my  heart  was  glad.  I  had  had  the  apprehension  that 
I  should  have  to  overcome  emotions :  that  it  might  be  only 
duty  that  would  keep  me  by  her  side ;  but  no,  no.  When  I 
saw  her  face,  and  her  gentle  eyes,  I  said  to  myself  how  easy 
would  be  the  task  of  loving  her  as  a  daughter  should. 
Dear  Papa,  she  is  so  ill ;  and  also  she  seems  so  far  away 
and  absorbed  and  sad.  She  is  only  a  little  interested  in 
me — only  a  little.  But  yet  I  think  she  is  pleased.  I  have 
shown  her  what  wardrobe  I  have  with  me,  and  that  pleased 
her  a  little ;  but  it  is  I  who  will  have  to  be  the  guardian,  and 
buy  things  for  her.  She  was  pleased  with  my  dressing-bag, 
and  to-morrow  I  am  going  to  buy  her  the  most  beautiful  one 
I  can  get  in  London.  Mr.  Lang  asked  me  to  burn  the  three 
blank  checks  you  gave  me,  and  I  did  that,  and  I  am  to  have 
money  from  him  ;  but  after  the  dressing-bag  I  hope  there 
will  not  be  much  expense  ;  for  we  shall  be  living  quietly  at 
Worthing;  and  T  know  that  when  you  gave  Mrs.  Graham 
the  expensive  piece  of  broderie  at  Cairo  you  will  not  grudge 
me  that  I  give  my  mother  a  beautiful  dressing-bag 

*■  It  has  all  happened  just  as  Mr.  Melville  planned.  How 
he  could  have  foreseen  6o  much  I  cannot  tell  \  perhaps  it  is 


302  YOLANDE. 

» 

that  I  followed  to  his  instructions  as  nearly  as  I  could 
The  people  were  insolent  somewhat ;  but  to  me,  not  to  m^ 
mother  ;  so  that  is  right.  But  at  the  end,  when  we  were 
coming  away,  the  man  seized  rae,  and  then  I  was  frightened 
— he  wished  me  to  go  back  into  the  house — and  then,  I  know 
not  how,  he  was  struck  and  fell ;  perhaps  by  the  policeman 
it  was,  but  I  did  not  stay  to  look.  I  hurried  my  mother 
into  the  cab,  and  we  are  here  safe  and  sound.  Poor  Jane 
is  so  angry.  She  demands  to  go  back  to-morrow  to  recover 
some  things  of  my  mother's  and  also  that  she  wants  to  "  have 
it  out  "  with  the  woman  because  of  the  way  she  spoke  to  me  ; 
but  this  I  will  not  allow.  I  shall  write  to  Messrs.  Law- 
rence &  Lang  to-night  to  send  some  one ;  also  to  pay  what 
ever  is  owing. 

"  She  has  just  come  over  and  stroked  my  hair,  and  gone 
back  to  her  chair  again ;  I  think  she  is  a  little  more  affec- 
tionate to  me  now  ;  and  oh !  I  am  so  anxious  to  get  away 
to  the  sea-air,  that  it  may  wake  her  out  of  this  lethargy. 
I  know  it  will,  I  am  sure  of  it.  We  have  got  such  cheer- 
ful  rooms !     The    address,   dear   papa,  is  Arbutus    Villa, 

Terrace,  Worthing  ;  please  give  it  to  Duncan,  and  tell 

him  to  send  me  each  week  a  brace  of  grouse,  a  brace  of 
black  game,  one  or  two  hares,  and  any  odd  ptarmigan  or 
snipe  you  may  get ;  then  I  will  know  that  they  are  good. 
To-night  we  had  supper  together ;  alas !  she  ate  scarcely 
anything.  I  asked  if  she  would  have  a  little  wine — no  ;  she 
seemed  to  have  a  horror  of  it ;  even  to  be  frightened.  She 
came  round  the  table  and  took  rae  by  the  hand,  and  begged 
of  me  to  be  always  with  her.  I  said,  was  not  that  what 
I  had  come  for?  She  said,  with  such  a  strange  voice,  "  I 
need  help — I  need  help"  ;  and  I  answered  that  now  every- 
tliing  was  to  be  reversed,  and  that  I  was  to  be  the  mother  to 
her,  and  to  take  charge  of  her.  Then  she  cried  a  little ;  but 
1  think  she  was  pleased  with  me  ;  and  when  I  said  that  I 
wanted  to  write  a  letter,  after  we  had  finished,  she  said  she 
would  read  until  I  had  written  the  letter,  and  then  she 
wished  to  hear  where  I  had  been,  and  how  I  had  lived  in 
the  Highlands.  Perhaps  in  time  I  will  persuade  her  to  be 
affectionate  to  me ;  on  my  part  it  will  not  be  difficult  that  I 
should  soon  love  her,  for  she  is  gentle,  and  to  regard  her 
fills  one's  heart  with  pity.  I  had  great  terror  that  it  might 
not  be  so. 

**  To-morrow,  if  \%  is  possible,  I  think  we  will  get  away 
to  Worthing.     I  am    anxious  to  begin   my  guardianship. 


YOLANDE.  308 

Perhaps  by  a  middle  day  train,  if  I  have  to  buy  some  things 
for  my  mother.  Or  why  not  there,  we  shall  have  plenty  of 
time  ?  I  wish  to  see  her  away  from  the  town — in  clear, 
brisk  air  ;  then  we  shall  have  the  long,  quiet,  beautiful  days 
to  become  acquainted  with  each  other.  It  is  so  strange,  is 
it  not,  a  mother  and  daughter  becoming  acquainted  with 
each  other  ?  But,  since  I  am  her  guardian,  I  must  not  let 
her  sit  up  too  late ;  and  so  good-night,  dear,  dear  papa,  from 
your  affectionate  daughter,  *'  Yolaxde." 

That  was  naturally  the  end  of  the  letter,  and  yet  she  held 
It  open  before  her  for  some  time  in  hesitation.  And  then 
she  took  her  pen  and  added  :  "I cannot  tell  you  how  glad 
it  would  make  me  if  you  had  time  to  write  a  long  letter  to 
me  about  Allt-nam-Ba,  and  all  the  people  there  ;  for  one 
cannot  help  looking  back  to  the  place  where  one  has  been 
happy." 


CHAPTER  XXXYIL 

A   BEGINNING. 


Despite  all  her  hurrying,  however,  Yolande  did  not 
manage  to  get  away  from  London  on  the  day  following;  it 
was  not  until  early  the  next  morning  that  she  and  her  mother 
and  the  maid  found  themselves  finally  in  the  train,  and  the 
great  city  left  behind  for  good.  The  weather  was  brilliant 
and  shining  around  them  ;  and  the  autumn-tinted  woods 
were  glorious  in  color.  To  these,  or  any  other  passing  ob- 
ject, Yolande,  in  her  capacity  of  guardian,  drew  cheerful  at- 
tention, treating  the  journey,  indeed,  as  a  very  ordinary 
e very-day  affair ;  but  the  sad-eyed  mother  seemed  hardly 
capable  of  regarding  anything  but  her  daughter,  and  that 
sometimes  with  a  little  bit  of  stealthy  crying. 

"  Ah,"  she  said,  in  those  strangely  hollow  tones,  **  it  is 
kind  of  you  to  come  and  let  me  see  you  for  a  little  while." 

"A  little  while?  What  little  while,  then  ? "  said  Yo- 
lande,  with  a  stare." 

"  Until  I  go  back." 

"  Until  you  go  back  whei-e,  mother  ?  " 


804  YOLANDE, 

"  Anywhere — away  from  you,"  said  the  mother,  regard- 
ing the  girl  with  an  affectionate  and  yet  wistful  look.  "  It 
was  in  a  dream  that  I  came  away  from  the  house  with  you. 
You  seemed  calling  me  in  a  dream.  But  now  I  am  begin- 
ning to  wake.  At  the  station  there  were  two  ladies  ;  I  saw 
them  looking  at  us ;  and  I  knew  what  they  were  thinking. 
They  were  wondering  to  see  a  beautiful  young  life  like  yours 
linked  to  a  life  like  mine  ;  and  they  were  right.  I  could  see 
it  in  their  eyes." 

"  They  would  have  been  better  employed  in  minding 
their  own  business,"  said  Yolande,  angrily. 

"  No ;  they  were  right,"  said  her  mother,  calmly ;  and 
then  she  added,  with  a  curious  sort  of  smile :  "  But  I  am 
going  to  be  with  you  for  a  little  while.  I  am  not  going 
away  yet.  I  want  to  learn  all  about  you,  and  understand 
you ;  then  I  shall  know  what  to  think  when  I  hear  of  )  ou 
afterward.  You  will  have  a  happy  life  ;  I  shall  hear  of  you 
perhaps,  and  be  proud  and  glad  ;  I  shall  think  of  you  always 
as  young  and  happy  and  beautiful ;  and  when  you  go  back 
to  your  friends — " 

*'  Dear  mother,  "  said  Yolande  ,*'  I  wish  you  would  not 
talk  nonsense.  When  I  go  back  to  my  friends  !  I  am  not 
going  back  to  any  friends  until  you  go  back  with  me :  do 
you  understand  that  ?  " 

'*  I  ?"  said  she  ;  and  for  a  second  there  was  a  look  of 
fright  on  her  face.  Then  she  shook  her  head  sadly.  **  No, 
no.  My  life  is  wrecked  and  done  for ;  yours  is  all  before  you 
— without  a  cloud,  without  a  shadow.  As  for  me,  I  am  con- 
tent. I  will  stay  with  you  a  little  while,  and  get  to  know 
you ;  then  I  will  go  away.  How  could  I  live  if  I  knew  that 
I  was  the  shadow  on  your  life  ?  " 

"  Well,  yes,  mother,  you  have  got  a  good  deal  to  learn 
about  me,"  said  Yolande,  serenely.  "  It  is  very  clear  that 
you  don't  know  what  a  temper  I  have,  or  you  would  not  be 
so  anxious  to  provoke  me  to  anger.  But  please  remem- 
ber that  it  isn't  what  you  want,  or  what  you  intend  to  do 
— it  is  what  I  may  be  disposed  to  allow  you  to  do.  I  have 
been  spoiled  all  my  life  ;  that  is  one  thing  you  will  have  to 
learn  about  me.  I  always  have  my  own  way.  You  will 
find  that  out  very  soon  ;  and  then  you  will  give  over  mak- 
ing foolish  plans  ;  or  thinking  that  it  is  for  you  to  decide. 
Do  you  think  I  have  stolen  you  away,  and  carried  you  into 
slavery,  to  let  you  do  as  you  please  ?  Not  at  all  ;  it  is  far 
from  that.     As  soo"  as  we  get   to  Worthinor  I  am  going  to 


YOLANDE.  306 

get  a  prettier  bonnet  than  that — I  know  the  shop  perfectly  ; 
I  saw  it  the  otlier  day.  But  do  you  think  I  will  permit  you 
to  clioose  the  color?  No,  not  at  all — not  at  all.  And  aa 
for  your  going  away,  or  going  back,  or  going  anywhere — oh 
we  will  see  about  that,  I  assure  you." 

For  the  time  being,  at  all  events,  the  mother  did  not 
protest.  She  seemed  more  and  more  fascinated  by  the  so- 
ciety of  her  daughter  ;  and  appeared  quite  absorbed  in  re- 
garding the  bright  young  fresh  face,  and  in  listening  witli  a 
strange  curiosity  for  the  slight  traces  of  a  foreign  accent 
tiiat  reinained  in  Yolande's  talking.  As  for  the  girl  herself 
she  bore  herself  in  the  most  matter  of  fact  way.  She  would 
liave  no  sentiment  interfere.  And  always  it  was  assumed 
that  her  mother  was  merely  an  invalid  whom  the  sea  air 
would  restore  to  health  ;  not  a  word  was  said  as  to  the  cause 
of  her  present  condition. 

Worthing  looked  bright  and  cheerful  on  this  breezy  fore- 
noon. The  wind-swept  yellow-gray  sea  was  struck  a  gleam- 
ing silver  here  or  there  with  floods  of  sunlight ;  the  morning 
promenaders  had  not  yet  gone  in  to  lunch  ;  a  band  was  play- 
ing at  the  end  of  the  pier.  When  they  got  to  the  rooms, 
they  found  that  every  preparation  had  been  made  to  receive 
them  ;  and  in  the  bay-window  they  discovered  a  large  teles- 
cope which  the  little  old  lady  said  she  had  borrowed  from  a 
neighbor  whose  rooms  were  unlet.  Yolande  managed  ever- 
thing — Jane  being  a  helpless  kind  of  creature — and  the 
mother  submitted  occasionally  with  a  touch  of  amusement 
appearing  in  her  manner.  But  usually  she  was  rather  sad, 
and  her  eyes  had  an  absent  look  in  them. 

"  Now  let  me  see,"  said  Yolande,  briskly,  as  they  sat  at 
lunch  (Jane  waiting  on  them).  "  There  is  really  so  much  to 
be  done  that  I  don't  known  where  we  should  begin.  Oh  yes, 
I  do.  First  we  will  walk  along  to  the  shops  and  buy  your 
bonnet.  Then  to  a  chemist's  for  some  scent  for  your  dress- 
ing-bags. Then  we  must  get  glass  dishes  for  flowers  for  the 
table — one  round  one  for  the  middle,  and  two  semicircles. 
Tiien  when  we  come  back  the  pony-carriftge  must  be  wait- 
ing for  us  ;  and  we  we  will  give  you  a  few  minutes  to  put 
on  the  bonnet,  dear  mother  ;  and  then  we  will  go  away  for 
a  drive  into  the  country.  Perhaps  we  shall  get  some  wild 
flowers  ;  if  not  then  we  will  buy  some  when  we  comeback — " 

"Why  should  you  give  yourself  so  much  trouble,  Yo- 
lande ?  "  her  mother  said. 


806  YOLANDE. 

**  TronMe  ?  It  is  no  trouble.  It  is  an  amusement — an 
occupation.     Without  an  occupation  how  can  one  live  ?  ** 

"  Ah,  you  are  so  full  of  life — so  full  of  life,"  the  mother 
said,  regarding  her  wistfully. 

**0h,  I  assure  you,"  said  Yolande,  blithely  *' that  not 
many  know  what  can  be  made  of  wild  flowers  in  a  room — if 
you  have  plenty  of  them.  Not  all  mixed  ;  but  here  one 
mass  of  color;  and  there  another.  Imagine,  now  that  we 
were  thirty-three  miles  from  Inverness  ;  how  could  one  get 
flowers  except  by  going  up  the  hill-side  and  collecting  them  ? 
That  was  an  occupation  that  had  a  little  trouble,  to  be  sure ! 
— it  was  harder  work  than  going  to  buy  a  bonnet !  Biit 
sometimes  we  were  not  quite  dependent  on  the  wild  flowers; 
there  was  a  dear  good  woman  living  a  few  miles  away — ah, 
she  was  a  good  friend  to  me  ! — who  used  to  send  me  from  her 
garden  far  more  than  was  right.  And  every  time  that  I 
passed,  another  handful  of  flowers  ;  niore  than  that,  perhaps 
some  fresh  vegetables  all  nicely  packed  up;  perhaps  a  little 
basket  of  new-laid  eggs  ;  perhaps  a  pair  of  ducklings — oh, 
such  kindness  as  was  quite  ridiculous  from  a  stranger.  And 
then  wlien  I  come  away,  she  goes  to  the  lodge,  and  takes 
one  of  the  girls  with  her,  to  see  that  all  is  right^;  and  no 
question  of  trouble  or  inconvenience ;  you  would  think  it 
was  you  who  were  making  the  obligation  and  giving  kind- 
ness, not  taking  it.  I  must  write  to  her  when  I  have  time. 
But  I  hope  soon  to  hear  how  they  are  all  going  on  up  there 
in  the  Highlands." 

"  Dear  Yolande,"  said  the  mother.  '*  why  should  you 
occupy  yourself  about  me  ?  Do  your  writing ;  I  am  content 
to  sit  in  the  same  room.  Indeed,  I  would  rather  listen  to 
you  talking  about  the  Highlands  than  go  out  to  get  the  bon- 
net, or  anything  else." 

"Why  do  I  occupy  myself  about  you?"  said  Yolande. 
"  Because  I  have  brought  you  here  to  make  you  well ;  that 
is  why.  And  you  must  be  as  much  as  possible  out-of-doors, 
especially  on  such  a  day  as  this,  when  the  air  is  from  the 
sea.  Ah,  we  shaH  soon  make  you  forget  the  London  din- 
giness  and  the  smoke.  And  you  would  rather  not  go  for  a 
drive,  perhaps,  when  it  is  I  who  am  going  to  drive  you  ?  " 

Indeed,  she  took  the  mastership  into  her  own  hand  ;  and 
perhaps  that  was  a  fortunate  necessity ;  for  it  prevented 
her  thinking  over  certain  things  that  had  happened  to  her- 
self. Wise,  grave-eyed,  thoughtful,  and  prudent,  there  waa 
now  little  left  m  her  manner  or  speech  of  the  petulant  and 


YOLANDE.  807 

light-hearted  Yolande  of  other  days ;  and  yes  she  was  pleased 
to  see  that  her  mother  was  taking  more  and  more  interest 
in  her  ;  and  perhaps  sometimes — though  she  strove  to  for- 
get the  past  altogether  and  only  to  keep  herself  busily  oc- 
cupied with  the  present — there  was  some  vague  and  subtle 
sense  of  self-approval.  Or  was  it  self-approval?  Was  it 
not  rather  some  dim  kind  of  belief  that  if  he  who  had  ap- 
pealed to  her,  if  he  who  had  said  that  he  had  faith  in  her, 
could  now  see  her,  he  would  say  that  she  was  doing  well  ? 
But  she  tried  to  put  these  remembrances  away. 

An  odd  thing  happened  when  they  were  out.  They  had 
gone  to  the  shop  were  Yolande  had  seen  the  bonnets  ;  and 
she  was  so  satisfied  with  the  one  that  she  chose  that  she 
made  her  mother  ])ut  it  on  then  and  there,  and  asked  the 
milliner  to  send  the  other  home.  Then  they  went  outside 
again  ;  and  not  far  ofP  was  a  chemist's  shop. 

"  Now,"  said  Yolande,  "  we  will  go  and  choose  two 
scents  for  the  bottles  in  the  dressing-bags.  One  shall  be 
white  rose  ;  and  the  other  ?  What  other  ?  " 

"  Whichever  you  like  best,  Yolande,"  said  her  mother, 
submissively,  her  daughter  had  become  so  completely  her 
guide  and  guardian. 

*'  But  it  is  for  your  dressing-bag  mother,  not  mine,"  said 
Yolande.  "  You  must  choose.  You  must  come  into  the 
shop  and  choose.'* 

"  Very  well,  then." 

They  walked  to  the  shop  ;  and  Yolande  glanced  for  a 
minute  at  the  window,  and  then  went  inside.  But  the 
moment  they  had  got  within  the  door — parhaps  it  was  the 
odor  of  the  place  that  had  recalled  her  to  herself — the 
mother  shrank  back  with  a  strange  look  of  fear  on  her  face. 

"  Yolande,"  she  said,  in  a  low,  hurried  voice,  "  I  will 
wait  for  }  ou  outside," 

"  But  which  is  to  be  the  other  scent  mother  ?  " 

"  I  will  wait  for  you  outside,"  said  she  with  her  hand 
touching  her  daughter's  arm.  "  I  will  wait  for  you  out- 
side." 

Then  Yolande  seemed  to  comprehend  what  that  dazed 
look  of  fear  meant ;  and  she  was  so  startled  that,  even  after 
her  mother  had  left,  she  could  scarce  summon  back  enough 
self-posession  to  tell  the  shopman  what  she  wanted.  There- 
after she  never  asked  her  mother  to  go  near  a  chemist's 
•hop. 

That  same  afternoon  they  went  for  a  drive  along  some 


808  YOLANDE. 

of  the  inland  country  lanes  ;  and  as  they  soon  fonnd  that 
the  stolid,  fat,  and  placid  pony  could  safely  be  left  under 
the  charge  of  Jane,  they  got  out  whenever  they  had  a  mind, 
to  look  at  an  old  church,  or  to  explore  banks  and  hedgerows 
in  search  of  wild  flowers.  Now  this  idle  strolling,  with 
occasional  scrambling  across  ditches,  was  light  enough  work 
for  one  who  was  accustomed  to  climb  the  hills  of  AUt-nam-i^a; 
but  no  doubt  it  was  fatiguing  enough  to  this  poor  woman, 
who,  nevertheless,  did  her  best  to  prove  herself  a  cheerful 
companion.  But  it  was  on  this  fatigue  that  Yolande  reck- 
oned. That  was  why  she  wanted  her  mother  to  be  out  all 
day  in  the  sea  air  and  the  country  air.  What  she  was  aim- 
ing at  was  a  certainty  of  sleep  for  this  invalid  of  whom  she 
was  in  charge.  And  so  she  cheered  her  on  to  furtlier 
exertion  ;  and  pretended  an  eagerness  in  this  search  for 
wild  flowers  which  was  not  very  real  (for  ever,  in  the  midst 
of  it,  some  stray  plants  here  or  there  would  remind  her 
of  a  herbarium  far  away,  and  of  other  days  and  other 
scenes),  until  at  last  she  thought  they  had  both  done  their 
duty,  and  so  they  got  into  the  little  carriage  again  and  drove 
back  to  Worthing. 

That  evening  at  dinner  she  amused  her  mother  with  a 
long  and  minute  account  of  the  voyage  to  Egypt,  and  of 
the  friends  who  had  gone  with  them,  and  of  the  life  on 
board  the  dahabeeyah.  The  mother  seemed  peculiarly  in- 
terested about  Mr.  Leslie,  and  asked  many  questions  about 
him ;  and  Yolande  told  her  frankly  how  pleasant  and 
agreeable  a  young  fellow  he  was,  and  how  well  he  and  hirf 
sister  seemed  to  understand  each  other,  and  so  forth.  She 
betrayed  no  embarrassment  in  expressing  her  liking  for 
him  ;  although,  in  truth,  she  spoke  in  pretty  much  the  same 
terms  of  Colonel  Graham," 

**  Mr.  Leslie  was  not  married,  then?" 

"  Oh,  no." 

'*  It  was  rather  a  dangerous  position  for  two  young  peo- 
ple," the  mother  said,  with  a  gentle  smile.  "  It  is  a  won- 
der you  are  not  wearing  a  ring  now." 

*' What  ring  ?"  Yolande  said,  with  a  quick  flush  of 
color. 

"  An  engagement  ring." 

In  fact,  the  girl  was  not  wearing  her  engagement  ring. 
On  coming  to  London  she  had  taken  it  off  and  put  it  away ; 
other  duties  claimed  her  now — that  was  what  "She  said  to 


4 


YOLANDE.  80d 

herself.     An^  now  she  was  content  that  her  mother  should 
remain  in  ignorance  of  that  portion  of  her  past  story. 

*' I  have  other  things  to  attend  to,"  she  said,  briefly; 
and  the  subject  was  not  continued. 

That  day  passed  very  successfully.  The  mother  had 
ehown  not  the  slightest  symptom  of  any  craving  for  either 
stimulant  or  narcotic  ;  nor  any  growing  depression  in  con- 
sequence of  being  deprived  of  these — though  Jack  Mel- 
ville had  warned  Yolande  that  both  were  probable.  No ; 
the  languor  from  which  she  suffered  appeared  to  be  merely 
the  languor  of  ill  health  ;  and,  so  far  from  becoming  more 
depressed,  she  had  become  rather  more  cheerful,  especially 
when  they  were  wandering  along  the  lanes  in  search  of 
wild  idowers.  Moreover,  when  she  went  to  bed  (she  and 
Yolande  occupied  a  large  double-bedded  room)  she  very 
speedily  fell  into  a  sound,  quiet  sleep.  Yolande  lay  awake 
watching  her,  but  everything  seemed  right ;  and  so  by-and- 
by  the  girl's  mind  began  to  wander  away  to  distant  scenes 
and  to  pictures  that  she  had  been  trying  to  banish  from 
her  eyes. 

And  if  sometimes  hi  this  hushed  room  she  cried  silently 
to  herself,  and  hid  her  face  in  the  pillow  so  that  no  sob 
should  awaken  the  sleeping  mother,  well,  perhaps  that  was 
only  a  natural  reaction.  The  strain  of  all  that  forced 
cheerfulness  had  been  terrible.  Once  or  twice  during  the 
evening  she  had  had  to  speak  of  the  Highlands ;  and  the 
effort  on  such  occasions  to  shut  out  certain  recollections 
and  vain  regrets  and  self-abasements  was  of  itself  a  hard 
thing.  And  now  that  the  strain  was  over,  her  imagination 
ran  riot ;  all  the  old  life  up  there,  with  its  wonder  and  de- 
light and  its  unknown  pitfalls,  came  back  to  her;  and  all 
through  it  she  seemed  to  hear  a  sad  refrain — a  couple  of 
lines  from  on  3  of  Mrs.  Bell's  ballads — that  she  could  not 
get  out  of  her  head. 

**  Quoth  he,  '  My  bonnie  leddy,  were  ye  sweet  Jeanle  Graham  ?* 
*  Indeed,  guid  sir,  but  ye've  guessed  my  very  name.'  " 

They  could  not  apply  to  her ;  but  somehow  there  was  sor- 
row in  them ;  and  a  meeting  after  many  years ;  and  the 
tragedy  of  two  changed  lives.  How  could  they  apply  to 
her?  If  there  was  any  one  of  whom  she  was  thinking  it 
ought  to  have  been  he  to  whom  she  had  plighted  her  troth. 
She  had  put  aside  her  engagement  ring  for  a  season  ;  but 


310  YOLANDE. 

she  was  not  thereby  absolved  from  her  promise.  And  yet 
it  was  not  tfhim  she  was  thinking;  it  was  of  someone 
she  saw  only  vaguely,  but  gray-haired  and  aftwr  many 
years,  coming  back  to  a  wrecked  existence  ;  and  her  heart, 
that  had  a  great  yearning  and  pity  and  love  in  it,  knew 
that  it  could  not  help,  and  what  was  there  but  woman's 
tears  and  a  life-long  regret?  That  was  a  sad  night.  It 
was  not  the  mother,  it  was  the  daughter,  who  passed  the 
long  sleepless  hours  in  suffering.  But  with  the  morning 
Yolande  had  pulled  herself  together  again.  She  was  only 
a  little  pale — that  was  all.  She  was  as  cheerful,  as  brave, 
as  high-spirited  as  ever.  When  did  the  band  play  ? — ^they 
would  walk  out  on  the  pier.  But  even  Jane  could  see  that 
this  was  not  the  Yolande  who  had  lived  at  Allt-nam-Ba 
with  a  kind  of  sunlight  always  on  her  face ;  and  she 
wondered. 

Not  that  day  but  the  next  came  the  anxiously  expected 
news  from  the  Highlands. 

**  My  Darling  Yolande, — Your  letter  has  given  me 
inexpressible  relief.  I  was  so  loath  to  see  you  go.  Above 
all,  it  seemed  so  cruel  that  you  should  go  alone,  and  I  re- 
main here.  But  probably  Mr.  Melville  was  right;  perhaps 
it  may  all  turn  out  for  the  best ;  but  it  will  be  a  long  time 
before  any  one  can  say  so  ;  and  as  I  think  of  you  in  the  mean- 
time, it  is  with  no  great  sense  of  satisfaction  that  I  am  con- 
scious that  I  can  do  nothing  to  help  you.  But  I  rejoice 
that  so  far  you  have  had  no  serious  trouble ;  perhaps  the 
worst  is  over;  if  that  were  so,  then  there  might  be  a  recom- 
pense to  you  for  what  you  must  be  undergoing.  It  would 
be  strange  indeed  if  this  should  succeed  after  so  many  fail- 
ures. It  would  make  a  great  difference  to  all  our  lives  ; 
sometimes  I  begin  to  think  it  possible,  and  then  recollec- 
tions of  the  past  prove  too  strong.  Let  me  know  your 
opinion.  Tell  me  everything.  Even  after  all  these  years, 
sometimes  I  begin  to  hope  and  to  think  of  our  having  a 
home  and  a  household  after  all. 

"  There  is  but  little  news  to  send  you.  At  the  moment 
I  am  quite  alone.  Mr.  Shortlands  has  changed  all  his 
plans,  and  has  gone  south  for  a  few  days,  finding  that  he 
can  come  back  and  remain  with  me  until  the  15th  of  Octo- 
ber, Then  you  must  tell  me  what  you  would  have  me  do. 
Perhaps  you  will  know  better  by  that  time.  If  you  think 
the  experiment  hopeleiis,  I  trust  you  will  have  the  honesty 


VOLANDE.  311 

to  say  so ;  then  I  will  take  you  for  a  run  abroad  somewhere; 
af  .er  your  long  waiting  and  nursing. 

**  The  Master  is  in  Inverness,  1  hear  ;  probably  it  is  busi- 
ness that  detains  him  :  otherwise  I  should  have  been  glad  of 
nis  company  on  the  hill,  now  that  Shortlands  is  away.  But 
the  shooting  has  lost  all  interest  for  me.  When  [  come  back 
in  the  evening  there  is  no  one  standing  at  the  door,  and  no 
one  to  sit  at  the  head  of  the  dinner  table.  I  shall  be  glad 
when  the  15th  of  October  comes;  and  then,  if  there  is  no 
prospect  of  your  present  undertaking  proving  successful,  you 
and  I  will  preen  our  feathers  for  the  South.  If  they  are  go- 
ing to  bury  you  alive  in  these  wilds  subsequently,  you  and  I 
must  have  at  least  one  last  swallow  flight.  Kot  the  Riviera 
this  time ;  the  Riviera  is  getting  to  be  a  combination  of 
Bond  Street  and  Piccadilly.  Athens — what  do  you  say?  I 
remember  the  Grahams  talking  vaguely  about  their  perhaps 
trying  to  spend  a  winter  in  Algiers,  and  pleasanter  travelling 
companions  you  could  not  find  anywhere  ;  but  even  if  we 
have  to  go  alone  we  shall  not  grumble  much  ? 

"  This  reminds  me  that  one  part  of  your  letter  made  me 
very  angry — I  mean  about  the  expense  of  the  dressing-bag, 
and  your  proposed  economy  at  Worthing.  I  suppose  it  was 
those  people  at  the  Chateau  that  put  those  ideas  into  your 
head;  but  I  wish  you  to  understand  that  there  is  nothing  so 
stupid  as  unnecessary  economy  for  economy's  sake,  and  that 
when  I  wish  you  to  begin  cheese-paring  I  will  tell  you  so. 
Extravagance  is  silly — and  ill-bred  too;  but  there  is  some 
such  thing  as  knowing  what  one  can  fairly  spend  in  propor- 
tion to  one's  income;  and  when  I  wish  you  to  be  more 
moderate  in  your  expenditure  I  will  tell  you.  And,  indeed, 
it  is  not  at  such  a  time  that  you  should  think  of  expense  at 
all.  If  this  experiment  is  likely  to  end  as  we  wish,  then  we 
shall  not  be  considering  a  few  pounds  or  so. 

"  I  think  you  will  be  pleased  to  hear  that  Mrs.  Bell  does 
not  manage  one  whit  better  than  you — how  could  she,  when 
everything  was  perfect?  But  the  situation  is  awkward.  I 
imagined  siie  was  only  coming  here  for  a  day  or  two — to  set 
things  going,  as  it  were,  under  a  new  regiine  ;  but  the  good 
woman  shows  no  signs  of  departure ;  and  indeed  she  man- 
ages everything  with  such  tact  and  good  sense,  and  with 
such  an  honest,  frank  recognition  of  the  facts  of  the  case, 
that  I  am  really  afraid  to  hurt  her  and  offend  her  by  suggest- 
ing that  she  should  not  waste  so  much  of  her  time  up  here. 
It  was  all  very  well  with  Mr.  Melville — he  was  her  hero,  the 


812  YOLANDE. 

master  of  the  house,  the  representative  of  the  family  that 
she  looked  \ip  to ;  but  it  is  different  with  me ;  and  yet  there 
is  a  kind  of  self-respect  in  the  way  in  which  she  strictty 
keeps  to  iier  *  station,'  that  one  does  not  like  to  interfere. 
I  have  thought  of  pointing  out  to  her  that  my  last  house- 
keeper was  a  person  called  Yolande  Winterbourne,  and  that 
she  was  in  no  wise  so  respectful  in  her  manner :  but  then  I 
thought  it  better  to  let  the  good  woman  have  her  own  way ; 
and  with  all  her  respectfulness  there  is,  as  you  know,  a  frank 
and  honest  friendliness  which  tells  you  that  she  quite  under- 
stands her  own  value  in  the  world.  She  has,  however,  been 
so  communicative  as  to  unfold  to  me  her  great  project  of  the 
buying  back  of  Monaglen  ;  and  I  must  say  it  seems  very  ill- 
advised  of  Mr.  Melville,  just  when  this  project  is  about  to  be 
accomplished,  to  disappear  and  leave  not  even  his  address  be- 
hind. All  that  Mrs.  Bell  knows  is  that,  on  the  morning  you 
left,  he  announced  his  intention  of  crossing  over  the  hills  to 
Kingussie  to  catch  the  night  train  going  south  ;  and  Duncan 
says  he  saw  him  going  up  by  the  Corrie-an-eich.  You  know 
what  an  undertaking  tliat  is,  and  the  stories  they  tell  about 
people  having  been  lost  in  these  solitudes;  but,  as  Duncan 
says,  there  was  not  any  one  in  the  country  who  could  cross 
the  hills  with  less  chance  of  coming  to  harm  than  Mr.  Mel- 
ville. Still,  he  miglit  have  left  the  good  woman  his  address; 
and  she,  it  seems,  did  not  consider  it  her  'place'  to  ask." 

At  this  point  Yolande  stopped — her  brain  bewildered, 
her  heart  beating  wildly.  If  he  had  crossed  over  the  hills 
to  catcli  the  night  train  to  the  south,  why,  that  was  the  train 
in  which  she  also  was  travelling  from  Inverness  to  London  ! 
Had  he  been  in  that  satne  train,  then — separated  from  lier 
by  a  few  carriages  only — during  the  long  darkness  in  which 
she  seemed  to  be  leaving  behind  her  youth  and  hope  and 
almost  the  common  desire  of  life  ?  And  why  ?  He  had 
spoken  to  no  one  of  his  going  away.  Mrs.  Bell  had  guessed 
that  he  might  be  going,  from  his  preparations  of  the  prev- 
ious evening :  but  to  leave  on  that  very  morning — to  catch 
the  very  train  in  which  she  was  seated — perhaps  to  come  all 
the  way  to  London  with  her:  here  was  food  for  speculation  and 
wonder.  Of  course  it  never  occurred  to  her  that  he  might 
have  come  to  any  harm  in  crossing  the  hills ;  she  did  not 
even  think  of  that.  He  was  as  familiar  with  these  corries 
and  slopes  and  streams  as  with  the  door-step  of  the  house  at 
Gress.  No  ;  he  had  waited  for  the  train  to  come  along  ;  per- 
haps fhedid  not  even  look  out  from  the  window  when  they 


YO  LANDS.  318 

reached  the  station  ;  he  would  get  into  one  of  the  car- 
riages ;  and  all  through  the  long  afternoon  and  evening, 
and  on  and  through  the  blackness  of  the  night,  and  in  the 
gray  of  the  morning,  he  was  there.  And  perhaps  at  Eus- 
ton  Square  too  ?  He  might  easily  escape  her  notice  in  the 
crowd  if  he  wished  to  do  so.  Would  he  disappear  into 
the  wilderness  of  London  ?  But  he  knew  the  name  of 
the  hotel  she  was  going  to — that  had  all  been  arranged 
between  them  ;  might  lie  not  by  accident  have  passed  along 
Albemarle  Street  on  one  or  other  of  those  days  ?  Ah,  if  slie 
had  chanced  to  see  him ! — would  not  London  have  seemed 
less  lonely  ?  would  she  not  have  consoled  herself  with  tlie 
fancy  that  somewhere  or  other  there  was  one  watching  over 
her  and  guarding  her  ?  A  dream — a  dream.  If  he  were 
indeed  there,  he  had  avoided  meeting  her.  He  had  gone 
away.  He  had  disappeared — into  the  unknown  ;  and  per- 
haps the  next  she  should  hear  of  him  might  be  after  many 
years,  as  of  a  gray-haired  man  going  back  to  the  place  tliat 
once  know  him,  with  perhaps  some  vague  question  on  his 
lips — 

'*  My  bomiie  laddy,  were  ye  sweet  Jeanie  Graham  ?  " 

though  to  whom  he  might  address  that  question  she  scarcely 
dared  to  ask  or  think. 

She  only  looked  over  the  remainder  of  the  letter;  her 
hurried  fancies  were  wandering  far  away. 

*'  So  you  see  I  have  no  news ;  although  in  ray  solitude 
this  gossip  seems  to  unite  you  with  me  for  a  time.  The 
only  extraordinary  thing  that  I  have  seen  or  met  with  since 
you  left,  we  ran  across  the  other  night  on  coming  home  from 
the  shooting.  We  had  been  to  the  far  tops  after  ptarmigan 
and  white  hares,  and  got  belated.  Long  before  we  reached 
liome  complete  darkness  overtook  us  ;  a  darkness   so   com- 

i>lete  that,  although  we  walked  Indian  tile,  Duncan  leading, 
.  could  not  see  Shortlands,  who  was  just  in  front  of  me  ;  I 
had  to  follow  him  by  sound,  sliding  down  among  loose 
stones  or  jumping  into  peat-hags  in  a  very  happy-go-lucky 
fashion.  Crossing  the  AUt-crom  by  the  little  swinging 
bridge  you  know  of,  was  also  a  pleasant  performance,  for 
there  had  been  rain,  and  the  waters  were  much  swollen, 
and  made  a  terrible  noise  in  the  dark.  However,  it  was 
when  we  were  over  the  bridge  and  making  for  the  lodge 
that  I  noticed  the  phenomenon  I  am  going  to  tell  you  about 


314  YOLANDE. 

I  was  trying  to  make  out  John  Sbortland's  legs  in  front  of 
me  when  I  saw  on  the  ground  two  or  three  small  points  of 
white  fire.  I  thought  it  strange  for  glow-worms  to  be  so 
high  above  the  level  of  the  sea,  and  I  called  the  others  back 
to  examine  these  things.  But  now  I  found,  as  they  were 
all  standing  in  the  dark,  talking,  that  wherever  you  lifted 
your  foot  from  the  wet  black  peat,  immediately  afterward  a 
large  number  of  these  pale  points  of  clear  fire  appeared, 
burning  for  about  a  minute,  and  then  gradually  disappear- 
ing. Some  were  larger  and  clearer  than  others — just  as  you 
remember,  on  a  phosphorescent  night  at  sea,  there  are  in- 
dividual big  stars  separate  from  the  general  rush  of  white 
as  the  steamer  goes  on.  We  tried  to  lift  some  of  the  points 
of  light,  but  could  not  manage  it ;  so  I  take  it  they  were 
not  glow-worms  or  any  other  living  creatures,  but  an  emana- 
tion of  gas  from  the  peaty  soils,only  that,  unlike  the  will-o-the- 
wisp,  they  were  quite  stationary,  and  burned  with  a  clear 
white  or  blue-white  flame — the  size  of  the  most  of  them 
not  bigger  than  the  head  of  a  common  pin,  and  sometimes 
about  fifteen  or  twenty  of  them  appearing  where  one  foot 
had  been  pressed  into  the  soft  soil.  Had  Mr.  Melville  been 
at  Gress  1  should  have  asked  him  about  it ;  no  doubt  he  has 
noticed  this  thing  in  his  rambles ;  but  he  has  been  away,  as 
I  say,  and  nobody  about  here  has  any  explanation  to  offer. 
The  shepherds  say  that  the  appearance  of  this  phosphoresc- 
ence, or  electricity,  or  illuminated  gas,  or  whatever  it  is, 
foretells  a  change  in  the  weatlier  ;  but  I  have  never  yet  met 
with  any  thing  in  heaven  or  earth  of  which  the  shepherds  did 
not  say  the  same  thing.  But  as  you,  my  dear  Yolande,  have 
not  seen  this  phenomenon,  and  know  absolutely  nothing 
about  it,  you  will  be  in  a  position  to  furnish  me  with  a  per- 
fectly consistent  scientific  theory  about  it,  which  I  desire 
to  have  from  you  at  your  convenience. 

"A  hamper  of  game  goes  to  you  to-day,  also  a  bunch 
of  white  heather  from 

"Your  affectionate  father, 

"  K.  G.  WiNTEKBOUENE." 

She  dwelt  over  the  picture  hero  presented  of  his  solitary 
life  in  the  north ;  and  she  knew  that  now  no  longer  were 
there  happy  dinner  parties  in  the  evening,  and  pleasant 
friends  talking  together ;  and  no  longer  was  there  any  need 
for  Duncan — outside  in  the  twilight — to  play  "  Melville'i 
Welcome  Home." 


YOLANDE,  816 


sMmM.^i. 


CHAPTER    XXXVin. 

AWAKING. 

Anotheb  two  days  passed,  Yolande  doing  her  best  to 
make  the  time  go  by  briskly  and  pleasantly.  They  walked 
on  the  promenade  or  the  pier ;  they  drove  away  inland 
through  quaint  little  villages  and  quiet  lanes.  When  the 
weather  was  wet  they  staid  indoors,  and  she  read  to  her 
mother,  or  they  rigged  up  the  big  telescope  in  the  bay-win- 
dow to  follow  the  slow  progress  of  the  distant  ships.  And 
the  strange?  thing  was  that,  as  Yolande  gradually  perceived, 
her  mother's  intellect  seemed  to  grow  clearer  and  clearer 
while  her  spirits  grew  more  depressed. 

"  I  have  been  in  a  dream — I  have  been  in  a  dream," 
she  used  to  say.  "  I  will  try  not  to  go  back.  Yolande, 
you  must  help  me.     You  must  give  me  your  hand." 

"  You  have  been  ill,  mother  ;  the  sea  air  will  make  you 
strong  again,"  the  girl  said,  making  no  reference  to  other 
matters. 

However,  that  studied  silence  did  not  last.  On  the 
evening  of  the  fifth  day  of  their  stay  at  Worthing,  Yolande 
observed  that  her  mother  seemed  still  more  depressed  and 
almost  suffering ;  and  she  did  all  she  could  to  distract  her 
attention  and  amuse  her.  At  last  the  poor  woman  said, 
looking  at  her  daughter  in  a  curious  kind  of  way, 

"  Yolande,  did  you  notice  when  I  came  away  from  the 
house  with  you  that  I  went  back  for  a  moment  into  my 
room  ?  " 

"  Yes,  I  remember  you  did." 

"  I  will  tell  you  now  why  I  went  back."  She  put  her 
hand  in  her  pocket  and  drew  out  a  small  blue  bottle,  which 
she  put  on  the  table.     "  It  was  for  that,"  she  said,  calmly. 

A  Hush  of  color  overspread  the  hitherto  pale  features  of 
the  girl ;  it  was  she  who  was  ashamed  and  embarrassed; 
and  she  said,  quickly  ; 

"  Yes,  I  understand,  mother — I  know  what  it  is.  But 
BOW  you  will  put  it  away  ;  you  do  not  want  it  any  longer —  * 

"  I  am  afraid,"  the  mother  said  in  a  low  voice.  "  Some- 


816  YOLANDE. 

times  I  have  tried  until  it  seemed  as  if  I  was  dyinc,  and 
that  has  brought  me  to  life  again.  Oh,  I  hope  I  shall 
never  touch  it  again  :  I  want  to  be  with  you,  walking  by 
your  side  among  the  other  people,  and  like  them — like 
every  one  else.** 

"And  so  you  shall,  n^other,"  Yolande  said;  and  she 
rose  and  got  hold  of  the  bottle.  *'  I  am  going  to  throw  this 
away." 

"  No,  no,  Yolande  ;  give  it  to  me,"  she  said,  but  with- 
out any  excitement.  *'  It  is  no  use  throwing  it  away.  That 
would  make  me  think  of  it.  I  would  get  more.  I  could 
not  rest  until  I  had  gone  to  a  chemist's  and  got  more — per- 
haps some  time  when  you  were  not  looking.  But  when  it 
is  there  I  feel  safe.     1  can  push  it  away  from  me.'* 

''  Very  well,  then,'*  said  Yolande,  as  she  went  to  the 
fire-place  and  placed  the  bottle  conspicuously  on  the  man- 
tel-shelf. Then  she  went  back  to  her  mother.  "  It  shall 
remain  there,  mother — as  something  you  have  no  further 
need  of.  That  is  done  with  now.  It  was  a  great  temptju 
tion  when  you  were  living  in  lodgings  in  a  town,  not  in 
good  air ;  and  you  were  ^^ry  weak  and  ill ;  but  soon  you 
will  be  strong  enough  to  get  over  your  fits  of  faintness  or 
depression  without  ^Aar.**  She  put  her  hand  on  her 
mother's  shoulder.  "  It  is  for  my  sake  that  you  have  put  it 
away?  " 

In  answer  she  took  her  daughter's  hand  in  both  hers 
and  covered  it  with  kisses. 

"  Yes,  yes,  yes.  I  have  put  it  away,  Yolande,  for  your 
sake — I  have  put  it  away  forever,  now.  But  you  have  a 
little  excuse  for  me  ?  You  do  not  think  so  hardly  of  me  as 
the  others  ?  I  have  been  near  dying — and  alone.  I  did 
not  know  I  had  such  a  beautiful  daughter — coming  to  take 
care  of  me,  too !  And  I  don't  want  you  to  go  away  now 
— not  for  a  while,  at  least.  Stay  with  me  for  a  little  time 
— until — until  I  have  got  to  be  just  like  the  people  we  meet 
out  walking — just  like  every  one  else;  and  then  I  shall 
have  no  fear  of  being  alone ;  I  shall  never,  never  touch 
ihaV 

She  glanced  at  the  bottle  on  the  mantel-shelf  with  a 
sort  of  horror.  She  held  her  daughter's  hand  tight.  And 
Yolande  kept  by  her  until,  not  thinking  it  was  prudent  to 
make  too  much  of  this  little  incident,  she  begged  her 
mother  to  come  and  get  her  things  on  for  another  short 
stroll  before  tea. 


YOLANDE.  817 

Toward  the  evening,  however,  it  was  clear  that  this 
poor  woman  was  suffering  more  and  more,  althougli  she 
endeavored  to  })ut  a  brave  face  on  it,  and  only  desired  that 
Yolande  should  be  in  the  room  with  her.  At  dinner  she 
took  next  to  nothing  ;  and  Yolande,  on  her  own  responsi- 
bikty,  begged  to  be  allowed  to  send  for  some  wine  for  her. 
But  no.  She  seemed  to  think  that  there  was  something  to 
be  got  through,  and  she  would  go  through  with  it.  Some- 
times she  went  to  the  window  and  looked  out,  listening  to 
the  sound  of  the  sea  in  the  darkness.  Then  she  would 
come  back  and  sit  down  by  the  fire,  and  ask  Yolande  to 
read  to  her — this,  that  or  the  other  thing.  But  what  she 
most  liked  to  have  read  and  re-read  to  her  was  "  A  Dream 
of  Fair  Women  "  ;  and  she  liked  to  have  Yolande  standing 
by  the  fire-place,  so  that  slie  could  regard  her.  And  some- 
ti'mes  the  tears  would  gather  in  her  eyes,  when  the  girJ 
came  to  the  lines  about  Jephthah's  daughter : 

"  emptied  of  all  joy, 
Leaving  the  dance  and  song. 

*'  Leaving  the  olive  gardens  far  below, 

Leaving  the  promise  of  ray  bridal  bower, 
The  valleys  of  grape-loaded  vines  that  glow 
Beneath  the  battled  tower. 

"  The  light  white  cloud  swam  over  us.    Anon 
We  heard  the  lion  roaring  from  his  den  ; 
We  saw  the  large  white  stars  rise  one  by  one. 
Or,  from  the  darken' d  glen, 

"  Saw  God  divide  the  night  with  flying  flame, 
And  thunder  on  the  everlasting  hills. 
I  heard  Him,  for  lie  spake,  and  grief  became 
A  solemn  scorn  of  ills." 

"  It  was  not  fair — it  was  not  fair,"  iho  murmured. 

"What,  mother?" 

"  To  send  you  here." 

"  Where  ought  I  to  be,  then,"  she  asked,  proudly,  "  ex- 
cept by  your  side  ?  " 

"  Yen  ?  Your  young  life  should  not  be  sacrificed  to 
mine.  Why  did  they  ask  you  ?  I  should  thank  God,  Yo- 
lande, if  you  were  to  go  away  this  evening — now — if  you 
were  to  go  away,  and  be  happy  with  your  youth  and  beauty 
and  kind  friends  ;  that  is  the  life  fit  for  you." 

"  But  I  am  not  going,  mother." 

"  Ah,  you  don't  know — you  don't  know,"  the  other  said, 


\ 


818  YOLANDB. 

with  a  kind  of  despair  coining  over  her.  "  I  am  ill,  Yolande 

I  am  wretched  and  miserable." 

"  The  more  reason  I  should  stay,  surely." 

"  I  wish  you  would  go  away  and  leave  me.  I  can  get 
back  to  London.  What  have  I  been  thinking  of  is  beyond 
me.  I  am  too  ill.  But  you — you — I  shall  always  think  of 
you  as  moving  through  the  world  like  a  princess — in  sun- 
light." 

"  Dear  mother,"  said  Yolande,  firmly,  **  I  think  we  said 
we  were  ^oing  to  have  no  more  nonsense.  I  am  not  going 
to  leave  you.  And  what  you  were  looking  forward  to  is 
quite  impossible.  If  you  are  ill  and  suffering  now,  I  am 
sorry;  I  would  gladly  bear  it  for  your  sake.  I  have  had 
little  trouble  in  the  world  ;  I  would  take  your  share.  But 
going  away  from  you  I  am  not.  So  you  must  take  courage 
and  hope ;  and  some  day — ah,  some  day  soon  you  will  be 
glad." 

"  But  if  I  am  restless  to-night,"  said  she,  glancing  at  her 
daughter,  uneasily,  "  and  walking  up  and  down,  it  will  dis- 
turb you." 

"  What  does  it  matter  ?  "  said  Yolande,  cheerfully. 

"  You  might  get  another  room." 

"  I  am  not  going  into  any  other  room.  Do  you  think  I 
would  forsake  my  patient." 

"  Will  you  leave  the  light  burning,  then  ?  " 

"  If  you  wish  it,  yes  ;  but  not  high,  for  you  must  sleep." 

But  when  they  were  retiring  to  rest  the  mother  begged 
that  the  little  blue  bottle  should  be  placed  on  the  bedroom 
chimney-piece. 

"  Why,  mother,  why  ?   You  surely  would  not  touch  it  ?  " 

"  Oh,  I  hope  not !  I  hope  not  I  But  I  shall  know  it  is 
near — if  I  am  like  to  die." 

''  You  must  not  fear  that,  mother.  I  will  put  the  bottle 
on  the  chimney-piece,  if  you  like,  but  you  need  not  even 
think  of  it.  That  is  more  likely  to  cause  your  death  than 
anything  else.  And  you  would  not  break  your  promise  to 
me?" 

She  [)re8sed  her  daughter's  hand  ;  that  was  all. 

Yolande  did  not  go  quickly  to  sleep,  for  she  knew  that 
her  mother  was  suffering — the  labored  sighs  from  time  to 
time  told  her  as  much.  She  lay  and  listened  to  the  wash 
of  the  sea  along  the  shingle,  and  to  the  tramp  of  the  latQ 
wayfarers  along  the  pavement.  She  heard  the  people  of  the 
home  go  upstairs  to  bed.     And  then,  bv-aud-bv,  the  stilJ 


YOLAKDE,  319 

ness  of  the  room,  and  the  effects  of  the  fresh  air,  and  the 
natural  healthiness  of  youth,  combined  to  make  her  drowsy, 
and  rather  against  her  inclination,  her  eyes  slowly  closed. 

She  was  waked  by  a  moan — as  of  a  soul  in  mortal  agou^. 
But  even  in  her  alarm  she  did  not  start  up  ;  she  took  time 
to  recover  her  senses.  And  if  the  poor  mother  were  really 
in  such  suffering,  would  it  not  be  better  for  her  to  lie  as  if 
she  were  asleep  ?  No  appeal  could  be  made  to  her  for  any 
relaxation  of  the  promise  that  had  been  given  her. 

Then  she  became  aware  of  a  stealthy  noise ;  and  a 
strange  terror  took  possession  of  her.  She  opened  her  eyes 
ever  so  slightly — glimmering  through  the  lashes  only — and 
there  she  saw  that  her  worst  fears  were  being  realized. 
Her  mother  had  got  out  of  bed  and  stolen  across  the  room 
to  the  sideboard  in  the  parlor,  returning  with  a  glass. 
Yolande,  all  trembling,  lay  and  watched.  She  was  not 
going  to  interfere — it  was  not  part  of  her  plan  ;  and  you 
may  be  sure  she  had  contemplated  this  possibility  before 
now.  And  very  soon  it  appeared  why  the  poor  woman  had 
taken  the  trouble  to  go  for  a  glass ;  it  was  to  measure  out 
the  smallest  quantity  that  she  thought  would  alleviate  her 
anguish.  She  poured  a  certain  quantity  of  the  black-look- 
ing fluid  into  the  glass  ;  then  she  regarded  it,  as  if  with 
hesitation  ;  then  she  deliberately  poured  back  one  drop,  two 
drops,  three  drops ;  and  drank  the  rest  at  a  gulp.  Then, 
in  the  same  stealthy  fashion,  she  took  the  glass  to  the  par- 
lor and  left  it  there,  and  crept  silently  back  again  and  into 
bed. 

Yolande  rose.  Her  face  was  pale,  her  lips  firm.  She 
did  not  look  at  her  mother ;  but,  just  as  if  she  were  assum- 
ing her  to  be  asleep,  she  quietly  went  out  of  the  room,  and 
presently  returned  with  a  glass  in  her  hand.  She  went  to 
the  chimney-piece.  Very  well  she  knew  that  her  mother's 
eyes  were  fixed  on  her,  and  intently  watching  her ;  and  as 
she  poured  some  of  that  dark  liquid  into  the  glass,  no  doubt 
she  guessed,  the  poor  woman  was  imagining  that  this  was 
an  experiment  to  see  what  had  been  taken  out  of  the  bottle. 
But  that  was  not  quite  Yolande's  purpose.  When  she  had 
poured  out,  as  nearly  as  she  could  calculate,  the  same 
quantity  that  her  mother  had  taken,  she  turned  her  face  to 
the  light,  and  deliberately  drank  the  contents  of  the  glass. 
It  was  done  in  a  second ;  there  was  a  sweet,  mawkish, 
pungent  taste  in  the  mouth,  and  a  shiver  of  disgust  as  she 


820  YOLANDK. 

•wallowed  the  thing ;  then  she  calmly  replaced  the  bottle 
on  the  chimney-piece. 

But  the  mother  had  sprung  from  her  bed  with  a  wild 
sliriek,  and  caught  the  girl  by  both  hands. 

"Yolandel  Yolande  !  what  have  you  done  ?" 

"  What  is  right  for  you,  mother,  is  right  for  me,"  she 
said,  in  clear  and  settled  tones.  "  It  is  how  I  mean  to  do 
always." 

The  frantic  grief  of  this  poor  creature  was  pitiable  to 
witness.  She  flung  her  arms  round  her  daughter,and  drew 
her  to  her,  and  wept  aloud,  and  called  down  vengeance  upon 
lierself  from  Heaven.  And  then  in  a  passion  of  remorse  she 
flew  at  the  bottle  that  was  standing  there,  and  would  have 
hui-Ied  it  into  the  fireplace,  had  not  Yolande,  whose  head 
was  beginning  to  swim  already,  interposed,  calmly  and 
firmly.  She  took  the  bottle  from  her  mother's  hand  and  re- 
placed it. 

*'  No ;  it  must  remain  there,  mother.  It  must  stand  there 
until  you  and  I  can  bear  to  know  that  it  is  there,  and  not  to 
wish  for  it." 

Even  in  the  midst  of  her  wild  distress  and  remorse  there 
was  one  phrase  in  this  speech  that  had  the  effect  of  silencing 
the  mother  altogether.  She  drew  back,  aghast,  her  face 
white,  her  eyes  staring  with  horror. 

**  You  and  I  ?"  she  repeated.  "  Tou  and  I  ?  You — to 
become  like — like — " 

"  Ves,"  said  Yolande.  "  What  is  right  for  you  is  right 
for  me  ;  that  is  what  I  mean  to  do — always.  Now,  dear 
mother,"  she  added,  in  a  more  languid  way,*'  I  will  lie  down 
—I  am  giddy — " 

She  sat  down  on  the  edge  of  the  bed,  putting  her  hand  to 
her  forehead,  and  rested  so  awhile  ;  then  insensible  after  a 
time  she  drooped  down  on  to  the  piilow,  although  the  fright- 
ened and  frantic  mother  tried  to  get  an  arm  round  her 
waist,  and  very  soon  the  girl  had  relapsed  inho  perfect  in- 
sensibility. 

And  tlien  a  cry  rang  through  the  house  like  the  cry  of  the 
Egyptian  mothers  over  the  death  of  their  first-born.  The 
l^nison  seemed  to  act  in  directly  opposite  ways  in  the  brains 
oi  these  two  women — the  one  it  plunged  into  a  profound  stu- 
por ;  the  other  it  drove  into  frenzy.  She  threw  herself  on 
the  senseless  form,  and  wound  her  arms  round  the  girl,  and 
•hrieked  aloud  that  she  had  murdered  her  child — her  beauti- 
ful daughter — she  was  dying — dead — and  no  one  to  save 


YOLANDE.  S21 

her — murdered  by  her  own  mother  I  The  little  household 
was  roused  at  once,  Jane  came  rushing  in,  terrified.  The 
landlady  was  the  first  to  recover  her  wits,  and  instantly  she 
sent  a  house-maid  for  a  doctor.  Jane,  being  a  strong-armed 
woman,  dragged  the  hysterical  mother  back  from  the  bed, 
and  bathed  her  young  mistress's  with  eau-de-Cologne  ;  it  was 
all  the  poor  kind  creature  could  think  of.  Then  they  tried 
to  calm  the  mother  somewhat,  for  she  was  begging  them 
to  give  her  a  knife  that  she  might  kill  herself  and  die  witli 
her  child. 

The  doctor's  arrival  quieted  matters  somewhat ;  and  ho 
had  scarcely  been  a  minute  in  the  room  when  his  eyes  fell 
on  tlie  small  blue  bottle  on  the  mantelpiece.  That  he  in- 
stantly got  hold  of  ;  the  label  told  him  what  were  the  con- 
tents ;  and  when  he  went  back  to  the  bedside  of  the  girl, 
who  was  lying  insensible  in  a  heavy  breathing  sleep,  her 
chest  laboring  as  if  against  some  weight,  he  had  to  exercise 
some  control  over  the  mother  to  get  her  to  show  him  pre- 
cisely the  quantity  of  the  fluid  that  had  been  taken.  Tiie 
poor  woman  seemed  beside  herself.  She  dropped  on  her 
knees  before  him  in  a  passion  of  tears,  and  clasped  her 
hands. 

"  Save  her !  save  her  !  sgive  my  child  to  me  !  If  you  can 
give  her  back  to  me  I  will  die  a  hundred  times  before  harm 
shall  come  to  her — my  beautiful  child  that  came  to  me  like 
an  angel,  with  kindness  and  open  hands,  and  this  is  what  I 
have  done  !  " 

"  Hush  !  hush  !  "  said  the  doctor,  and  he  took  her  by  the 
hand  and  gently  raised  her.  *'  Now  you  must  Ce  quiet. 
I  am  not  going  to  wake  your  daughter.  If  that  is  what  she 
took  she  will  sleep  it  off;  she  is  young,  and  I  should  say 
healthy.  I  am  going  to  let  nature  work  the  cure,  thoui^h  I 
fear  the  young  lady  will  have  a  bad  headache  in  the  moj-ii- 
ing.  It  is  a  most  mischievous  thing  to  have  such  drugs  in 
the  house.  "  You  are  her  maid,  I  understand  ?  "  he  said, 
turning  to  Jane. 

"  Yes,  sir." 

"  Ah.  Well,  I  think  for  to-night  you  had  better  occupy 
that  bed  over  there,  and  the  young  lady's  mother  can  have 
a  bed  elsewhere.  I  don't  think  you  need  fear  anything — ex- 
cept a  headache  in  the  morning.  Let  her  sleep  as  long 
as  she  may.  In  the  morning  let  her  go  for  a  drive  in  the 
fresh  air,  if  she  is  too  languid  to  walk." 

But  the  mother  cried  so  bitterly  on  hearing  of  this  ar- 


322  YOLANDE, 

rangement  that  they  had  to  consent  to  her  retaining  her 
place  in  the  room,  while  Jane  said  she  could  make  herself 
comfortable  enough  in  an  arm-chair.  As  for  the  poor 
mother,  she  did  not  go  back  to  her  own  bed  at  all ;  she  sat 
at  the  side  of  Yolande's  bed — at  the  foot  of  it,  lest  the  sound 
of  her  sobbing  should  disturb  the  sleeper ;  and  sometimes 
she  put  her  hand  ever  so  lightly  on  the  bedclothes,  with  a 
kind  of  pat,  as  it  were,  while  the  tears  were  running  down 
her  face. 


CHAPTER  XXXIX. 


"  O'  BY-GANB  DAYS  AND  ME." 

The  Master  of  Lynn  was  walking  along  Church  Street, 
Inverness,  leisurely  smoking  liis  morning  cigar,  when  a  small 
boy  from  the  hotel  overtook  him  and  handed  him  a  letter. 
He  glanced  at  the  handwriting,  and  saw  it  was  from  his  sister; 
so  he  put  it  in  his  pocket  without  opening  it.  Then  he  went 
on  and  into  Mr.  Macleay's  shop. 

This  was  a  favorite  lounge  of  his.  For  not  only  was  it  a 
valuable  museum  of  natur^il  history  — all  kinds  of  curiosities 
and  rarities  being  sent  thither  to  be  preserved — but  also,  to 
any  one  with  sufficient  knowledge,  it  afforded  a  very  fair  re- 
port as  to  what  was  going  on  in  the  different  forests.  More 
than  that,  it  was  possible  for  one  to  form  a  shrewd  guess  as 
to  the  character  of  some  of  the  people  then  wandering  about 
the  Highland — the  sort  of  sportsmen,  for  example,  who 
sent  to  be  stuffed  such  rare  and  remarkable  birds  as  gannets, 
kittiwakes,  and  skarts,  or  who  wished  to  have  all  the  honors 
of  a  glass  case  and  a  painted  background  conferred  on  a 
three-pound  trout.  It  was  not  difficult  (as  he  sat  on  the 
counter  or  strolled  about)  to  imagine  the  simple  joy  with  which 
these  trophies  had  been  secured  and  carefully  packed  and 
sent  away  for  preservation  ;  while,  on  the  other  hand,  some 
great  stag's  head — a  magnificent  and  solitary  prize — perhaps 
awoke  a  touch  of  envy.  The  good-natured  proprietor  of  the 
establishment,  busy  with  his  own  affairs,  let  this  young  man 
do  pretty  much  what  he  liked  in  the  place;  and  so  it  was 
that  the  Master,  having  had  a  look  at  the  latest  specimens 
of  the  skill  of  tlie  workshop,  took  out  his  sister's  letter  and 


YOLANDE.  f,-ja 

read  it,  and  then  begged  for  a  sheet  of  paper  and  the  loan 
of  a  pen.      He  thought  he   might  just  as   well   iinisn  his 
cigar  here,  and  answer  his  sister  at  the  same  time. 
He  wrote  as  follo-vs  : 

"Inverness,  Sei^cmher  29. 

"  Dear  Polly, — ^I  wish  you  would  be  ])leased  to  moderate 
the  rancor  of  your  tongue ;  there  is  quite  enough  of  that 
commodity  at  Lynn.  Whoever  lias  told  you  of  the  latest 
row  has  probably  not  overstepped  the  truth ;  but  isn't  it  a 
blessed  dispensation  of  Providence  that  one  can  obtain  a 
little  peace  at  the  Station  Hotel  ?  However,  that  is  becom- 
ing slow.  I  wish  I  knew  where  Jack  Melville  is ;  I  would 
propose  a  little  foreign  travel.  For  one  thing,  I  certainly 
don't  mean  to  go  back  to  Lynn  until  Mr  Winterbourne  has 
left  AUt-nam-Ba ;  of  course  he  must  see  very  well  that  the 
people  at  the  Towers' have  cut  him  ;  and  no  doubt  he  under- 
stands the  reason;  and  he  might  ask,  don't  you  see ;  and 
very  likely  he  might  get  angry  and  indignant  (I  shouldn't 
blame  him)  and  then  he  might  ask  Yolande  to  break  off  the 
engagement.  Such  things  have  happened  before.  V>\\1  you 
needn't  get  wild  with  me.  7" don't  seek  to  break  oft"  the  en- 
gagement; certainly  not;  if  that  is  what  they  are  aiming  at 
they  will  find  me  just  as  pertinacious  as  you  were  about 
Graham  (you  needn't  assume  that  you  have  all  the  obstinacy 
in  the  world);  and  although  I'm  not  too  squeamish  about 
most  things,  still,  Pm  not  going  to  break  my  word  simply 
because  Auntie  Tab  doesn't  like  Mr.  Winterbourne's  poli- 
tics. 

"  Now  there's  is  a  chance  for  you.  Miss  Polly.  Why 
don't  you  set  to  work  to  make  a  leopard  change  his  spots  ? 
You  think  you  can  talk  anybody  over.  Why  don't  you  talk 
over  Mr.  Winterbourne  into  the  paths  of  virtue  and  high 
Toryism?  I  don't  see  why  it  should  be  so  dilHcult.  Of 
course'  he's  violent  enough  in  the  House;  but  that's  to  keep 
in  with  his  constituents ;  and  to  talk  with  him  after  a  day's 
shooting  you  wouldn't  guess  he  had  any  jiolitics  at  all.  Pd 
bet  a  sovereign  he  would  rather  get  a  royal  than  be  made  a 
cabinet  minister.  You'd  much  better  go  and  coax  him  into 
the  paths  of  the  just  than  keep  getting  into  rages  wdth  me. 
You  talk  as  if  it  was  you  that  wanted  to  marry  Yolande  ;  or 
rather  as  if  it  was  you  who  were  going  to  buy  the  Corrie- 
▼reak  side  from  Sir  John,  and  couldn't  wait  for  the  convey 
ancing  to  be  done.     Such  impetuosity  isn't  in  accord  AvitL 


324  YOLANDE. 

your  advancing  years.  The  fact  is,  you  haven't  been  having 
your  fair  dose  of  flirtation  lately,  and  you're  in  a  bad  tem- 
per. But  why  with  me?  /didn't  ask  the  people  to  Invers- 
troy.  I  can  see  what  sort  of  people  they  are  by  the  cart-load 
of  heads  Graham  has  sent  here  (1  am  writing  in  Macleay's 
shop).  If  ever  I  can  afford  to  keep  our  forest  in  my  own 
hands  there  won't  be  anything  of  that  going  on — no  matter 
who  is  in  the  house. 

"  And  why  should  you  call  upon  me  for  the  explanation 
of  the  'mystery'?  What  mystery  is  involved  in  Yolande's 
going  south?  Her  father,  I  understand,  leaves  on  the  ISth 
of  October;  and  I  am  not  surprised  that  nothing  has  been 
said  about  a  lease  of  the  place.  Of  course  Winterbourne 
must  understand.  But  in  the  south,  my  dear  Polly,  if  you 
would  only  look  at  the  reasonable  aspect  of  affairs,  we  may 
all  of  us  meet  on  less  embarrassing  terras;  and  I  for  one 
shall  not  be  sorry  to  get  away  for  the  winter  from  the  society 
of  Tabby  and  Co.  Yolande  and  I  have  not  quarelled  in 
the  least;  on  that  point  you  may  keep  your  hair  smooth. 
But  I  am  not  at  all  sure  that  I  am  not  bound  in  honor  to 
tell  her  how  I  am  placed;  and  what  treatment  in  the  future 
— or  rather  what  no-treatment  —  she  may  expect  from  my 
affectionate  relatives.  Of  course  it  can  not  matter  to  her. 
She  will  be  independent  of  them — I  also.  But  I  think  I 
ought  to  let  her  know,  so  that  she  will  not  be  surprised  at 
their  silence;  and  of  course  if  she  resents  their  attitude  to 
her  father  (as  is  very  likely) — well,  that  is  their  fault,  not 
mine.  I  am  not  going  to  argue  any  more  about  it;  and  as 
for  anything  like  begging  for  their  patronage  or  sufferance 
o^  Yolande,  that  is  entirely  out  of  the  question.  I  will  not 
have  it,  and  I  have  told  you  so  before;  so  there  may  just 
as  well  be  an  end  to  your  lecture.  I  am  a  vertebrate  an- 
imal. 

"  Yolande  is  at  Worthing — not  in  London,  as  you  seem  to 
think.  I  don't  know  her  address;  but  I  have  written  to  Allt- 
nam-ba  for  it.  I  believe  she  left  rather  in  a  hurry.  No;  I 
sha'n't  send  it  to  you ;  for  you  would  probably  only  make  mis- 
chief by  interfering;  and  indeed  it  is  not  with  her  that  any 
pursuasion  is  necessary.  Persuasion? — it's  a  little  common- 
sense  that  is  necessary.  But  that  kind  of  plant  doesn't  flourish 
at  the  Towers — I  never  heard  of  Jack  Melville  getting  it  for  his 
collection  of  dried  weeds. 

"  Well,  good-by.     Don't  tear  your  hair. 

"  Your  affectionate  brother,  Archie. 


TOLANDE.  325 

"P.S. — It  is  very  kind  of  you  to  remind  me  of  baby^s 
birthday ;  but  how  on  earth  do  you  expect  me  to  know 
what  to  send  it?  A  rocking-horse,  or  a  Latin  Grammar,  or 
what?" 

He  leisurely  folded  the  letter,  put  it  in  an  envelope,  and 
addressed  it;  then  he  turned  to  have  a  further  chat  with 
Mr.  Macleay  about  the  various  triumphs  of  the  taxidermic 
art  standing  around.  Several  of  these  were  in  the  window; 
and  he  was  idly  regarding  them,  when  he  caught  sight, 
through  the  panes,  of  someone  passing  by  outside.  For  a 
second  he  seeuied  to  pause,  irresolute;  then  he  quickly  said 
jiood-morning  to  Mr.  Macleay,  went  outside,  threw  away 
nis  cigar,  and  followed  the  figure  that  he  had  seen  passing 
the  window.  It  was  that  of  a  young  woman,  neatly  dressed ; 
indeed,  it  was  no  other  than  Shena  Van — though  probably 
Janet  Stewart  had  acquired  that  name  when  she  was  younger, 
for  now  she  could  not  strictly  be  described  as  fair,  though  her 
hair  was  of  a  light  brown  and  her  eyes  of  a  deep  and  exceed- 
ingly pretty  blue. 

"Good-morning,    Miss  Stewart,"   said  he,   overtaking  her. 

The  young  lady  turned  quickly,  perhaps  with  a  slight 
touch  of  alarm  as  well  as  surprise  in  her  look. 

"  Oh,  good  morning,  Mr.  Leslie,"  said  she,  with  a  certain 
reserve — not  to  say  coldness — of  manner ;  though  the  sound 
of  her  speech,  with  its  slight  accent,  was  naturally  gentle  and 
winning. 

"  I  had  no  idea  you  were  in  Inverness,"  said  he.  "  I  just 
caught  a  glimpse  of  you  while  I  was  in  Macleay's  shop.  Why, 
it  is  a  long  time  since  I  have  seen  you  now. 

She  was  a  little  embarrassed  and  nervous;  probably  desirous 
of  getting  away,  and  yet  not  wishing  to  be  rude. 

"  I  am  often  in  Inverness  now,"  she  said,  with  her  eyes 
averted,  "since  my  sister  was  married." 

"Are  you  going  to  the  steamer?"  he  asked,  for  she  carried 
a  small  parcel  in  her  hand. 

"  Yes,"  said  she,  with  some  hesitation.  "  I  was  thinking  of 
walking  to  the  steamer." 

•*  Then  I  suppose  I  may  go  as  far  wjth  you,"  said  he, 
"  for  I  have  a  letter  that  I  want  the  clerk  to  have  sent  on  to 
Invcrstroy." 

She  glanced  quickly  up  and  down  the  street ;  but  he  did 
not  give  her  time  to  say  yea  or  nay ;  and  then,  with  some- 
thing of    silence  and    resentment  on  her   part,  they    set  out 


826  YOLANDE. 

together.  It  was  a  very  ]>Ieasant  and  cheerful  morning  ; 
and  their  way  was  out  into  the  country ;  for  Miss  Stewart  s 
destination  was  that  lock  on  the  Caledonian  Canal  from 
which  the  steamer  daily  sails  for  the  south.  Nevertheless 
the  young  lady  did  not  seem  over-well  pleased. 

At  first  they  talked  chiefly  about  her  friends  and  rela- 
tives,  he  asking  the  questions  and  she  answering  with  some- 
what few  words  ;  and  she  was  careful  to  inform  him  that 
now  she  was  more  than  ever  likely  to  be  away  from  Inver- 
ness-shire, for  her  brother  had  recently  been  elected  to  one 
of  the  professorships  at  Aberdeen,  and  he  had  taken  a 
house  there,  and  he  liked  to  have  her  in  the  house,  because 
of  looking  after  things.  She  gave  him  to  understand  that 
there  was  a  good  deal  of  society  in  the  ancient  city  of 
Aberdeen,  and  that  the  young  men  of  the  University  were 
anxious  to  visit  at  her  brother's  house. 

"It  is  a  natural  thing,"  said  pretty  Shena  Van,  with  a 
touch  of  pride  in  her  tone,  *'  for  the  young  men  to  be  glad 
to  be  friends  with  my  brother;  not  only  because  he  is  one 
of  the  professors,  but  because  he  was  very  distinguished  at 
Edinburgh,  and  at  Heidelberg  too — very  distinguished  in- 
deed." 

"  Oh  yes ;  I  know  that,"  said  the  Master  of  Lynn, 
warmly.  "I  have  heard  Jack  Melville  speak  of  him.  I  dare 
say  your  father  is  very  proud  of  his  success." 

"Indeed  I  think  we  are  all  rather  proud  of  it,"  said 
Miss  Stewart. 

But  when  they  had  crossed  the  bridge  over  the  wide  and 
shallow  waters  of  the  Ness,  and  were  getting  away  from  the 
town  into  the  quietude  of  the  country,  he  endeavored  to 
win  over  his  companion  to  something  more  of  friendliness. 
He  was  a  gentle-spoken  youth  ;  and  this  coldness  on  the 
part  of  his  ancient  comrade  he  seemed  to  consider  unfair. 

"  We  used  to  be  great  friends,"  said  he  ;  "  but  I  sup- 
pose you  have  forgotten  all  that.  I  suppose  you  have  for- 
gotten the  time  when  Shena  Van  was  reaching  out  for  the 
branches  of  a  rowan-tree,  and  fell  into  the  burn  ?  " 

She  blushed  deeply  ;  but  there  was  the  same  cold  re- 
serve in  her  manner  as  she  said, 

"  That  was  a  long  time  ago." 

"  Sometime  ,"  said  he,  with  a  sort  of  gentleness  in  his  look, 
•*  I  wish  your  father  had  never  gone  away  to  Strathaylort  ; 
you  and  I  use'd  to  be  great  friends  at  one  time." 

"  Mv  father  is   well  ^leased   with   Strathaylort,"   said 


YOLANDE.  327 

Miss  Stewart,  "  and  so  are  we  all  ;  for  the  manse  is  larger, 
and  we  have  many  more  friends  in  Strathaylort.  And  tlie 
friends  we  left — well  I  suppose  they  can  remember  us  Avhen 
they  wish  to  remember  us." 

This  was  rather  pointed  ;  but  he  took  no  notice  of  it — he 
was  so  anxious  to  win  his  companion  over  to  a  more  concil- 
iatory mood. 

"  And  are  you  as  fond  of  reading  poetry  as  ever  ?  "  said 
he,  regarding  her  ;  but  always  her  eyes  were  averted. 

"  Sometime  I  read  poetry,  as  I  read  other  things,"  she 
said  ;  "  but  with  my  sister  in  Inverness  and  my  brother  in 
Aberdeen,  I  am  very  often  visiting  now." 

**  Do  you  remember  liow  we  to  used  to  read  "  Horatius  " 
aloud,  on  the  hill  above  Corrie-an- eich  ?  And  the  bridge 
below  was  the  bridge  that  the  brave  Horatus  kept  ;  and 
you  seemed  to  see  him  jump  into  the  Allt-crom,  not  the 
Tiber  at  all  ;  and  I  am  quite  sure  when  you  held  out 
your   finger   and   pointed — when 

"  he  saw  on  Palatinus 
The  white  Porch  of  his  home  '— 

you  were  looking  at  the  zinc-roofed  coach-house  at  Allt- 
nam-Ba." 

"  I  was  very  silly  then,"  said  Shena  Van,  with  red 
cheeks. 

"  And  when  you  were  Boadicea,  a  flock  of  sheep  did  very 
well  as  an  army  for  you  to  address  ;  only  the  collies  used  to 
think  you  were  mad." 

"  I  dare  say  they  were  right." 

"  Do  you  remember  the  Sword  Chant  of  Thorstein 
Raudi,  and  my  bringing  you  a  halberd  from  the  Towers — ' 
Might-Giver  !  I  kiss  thee  ;  '  *  Joy-Giver  !  I  kiss  thee ; ' 
*  Fame  Giver  !  I  kiss  thee,  ?  ' 

"  Indeed  you  have  a  wonderful  recollction,"  said  Misa 
Stewart.  "  I  should  think  it  was  time  to  forget  such  folly. 
As  one  grows  up  there  are  more  serious  things  to  attend  to. 
I  am  told  " — and  here,  for  the  first  time,  she  turned  her 
beautiful  dark  blue  eyes  to  him,  but  not  her  face  ;  so  that 
she  was  looking  at  him  rather  askance,  and  in  a  curious, 
interrogative,  and  at  the  same  time  half-combative  fashion — " 
I  am  told  that  you  are  about  to  be  married.'* 

Now  it  was  his  turn  to  be  enibarrassed  ;  and  ho  did 
not  meet  those  too  searching  eyes. 

"  As  you  say,  Shena,  life  turns  out  to  have  serious  duties 


328  YOLANDE. 

and  not  lo  be  quite  like  what  one  dreams  about  when  one 
is  young,"  he  observed,  somewhat  vaguely.  "  That  can't 
prevent  your  remembering  other  days  with  a  good  deal  of 
affection — •" 

"  But  you  must  let  me  congratulate  you,  Mr.  Leslie," 
said  she,  sharply  bringing  him  to  his  senses.  "  And  if  the 
wedding  is  to  be  at  Lynn,  I  am  sure  my  father  would  be 
glad  to  come  over  from  Strathaylort." 

There  could  be  nothing  further  said  on  this  rather  awk- 
vvard  subject  just  at  the  moment,  for  they  had  arrived  at 
the  steamer,  and  he  had  to  go  and  hunt  out  the  clerk  to  in- 
trust him  with  those  small  cojtn missions.  Then  he  rejoined 
Miss  Stewart,  and  set-out  for  the  town  again ;  but  wliile 
slie  was  quite  civil  and  friendly  in  a  formal  fashion,  he  could 
not  draw  her  into  any  sort  of  conjoint  regarding  of  their 
youthful  and  sentimental  days.  Nay,  more;  when  they  got 
bacii  to  the  bridge  she  intimated,  in  the  gentlest  and  most 
respectful  way,  that  she  would  rather  go  through  the  town 
alone ;  and  so  he  was  forced  to  surrender  the  cruel  solace 
of  her  companionship. 

"  Good-by  Shena,"  said  he,  and  held  her  hand  for  a  mo- 
ment. 

"  Good-morning,  Mr.  Leslie,'*  said  she,  without  turning 
her  eyes  toward  him. 

Then  he  walked  away  by  the  side  of  the  river,  with  a 
general  sense  of  being  aggrieved  settling  down  on  him. 
Whichever  way  he  turned,  people  seemed  only  disposed  to 
thwart  and  controvert  him.  Surely  there  was  no  harm  in 
being  on  friendly  terms  with  Shena  Van,  and  in  reminding 
her  of  the  days  when  he  and  she  were  boy  and  girl  together  ? 
If  he  had  jilted  her,  she  would  have  good  grounds  for  be 
ing  vexed  and  angry ;  but  he  had  not.  Nothing  in  that  di- 
rection had  ever  been  spoken  of  between  them.  It  is  true 
he  had  at  one  time  been  very  much  in  love  with  her;  and- 
although  he  had  but  little  romance  in  his  character  (that  be- 
ing an  ingredient  not  likely  to  be  fostered  by  the  air  of  Ox- 
ford, or  by  the  society  of  the  young  officers  of  the  Seaforth 
Highlanders),  still  the  glamor  of  love  had  for  the  moment 
blinded  him,  and  he  had  seriously  contemplated  asking  her 
to  be  his  wife.  He  had  argued  with  himself  that  this  was 
no  stage  case  of  a  noble  lord  wedding  a  village  maiden, 
but  the  son  of  an  almost  penniless  peer  marrying  a  well  ac« 
complished  young  lady  of  perfectly  respectable  parentage,  a 
young  lady  whose  beautiful  qualities  of  mind  were  known 


YOLANDE,  829 

only  to  a  few — only  to  one,  perhaps,  who  had  discovered 
them  by  looking  into  the  magic  mirror  of  a  pair  of  strangely 
dark  and  clear  blue  eyes.  The  infatuation  was  strong — for 
a  time  ;  but  when  ])retty  Mrs.  Graham  came  to  learn  of  it 
there  was  trouble.  Now  the  master  of  Lynn  detested  trouble. 
Besides,  his  sister's  arguments  in  this  case  were  terribly 
cogent.  She  granted  that  Shena  Van  might  be  everything 
he  said,  and  quite  entitled,  by  her  intelligence  and  virtues 
and  amiabilities  of  character,  to  become  the  future  mistress 
of  Lynn  Towers.  But  she  had  not  a  penny.  And  was  all 
the  labor  that  had  been  bestowed  on  freeing  the  estate  from 
its  burdens  to  be  thrown  away?  Were  the  Leslies  to  re- 
main in  those  pinched  circumstances  that  prevented  their  tak- 
ing their  proper  place  in  the  country,  to  say  nothing  of  Lon- 
don ?  Mrs.  Graham  begged  and  implored  ;  there  was  some  dis- 
tant and  awful  thunder  on  the  part  of  his  lordship  ;  and  then 
Archie  Leslie  (who  hated  fuss)  began  to  withdraw  himself 
from  the  fatal  magnetism  of  those  dark  blue  eyes.  Nothing 
had  been  said ;  Miss  Stewart  could  not  complain.  But  the 
beautiful  blue  eyes  had  a  measure  of  shrewdness  in  them  : 
she  may  have  guessed  ;  nay,  more,  she  may  have  hoped,  and 
even  cherished  her  own  little  romantic  dreams  of  affection. 
Be  that  as  it  may,  the  young  Mastci'  of  Lynn  gave  way  to 
those  entreaties,  to  that  warning  of  storm.  When  his  sister 
said  he  was  going  to  make  a  fool  of  himself  he  got  angry, 
but  at  the  same  time  he  saw  as  clearly  as  she  that  Lynn  was 
starved  for  want  of  money.  And  although  love's  young 
dream  might  never  return  in  all  its  freshness  of  wonder  and 
longing,  still  there  were  a  large  number  of  pretty  and  hand- 
some young  women  in  this  country,  some  one  of  whom  (if 
•iier  eyes  had  not  quite  the  depth  and  clearness  of  the  eyes 
of  Shena  Van)  might  look  very  well  at  the  head  of  the  dinner 
table  at  Lynn  Towers.  And  so  for  a  time  he  left  Lynn, 
and  went  away  to  Edinburgh  ;  and  if  his  disappointment  and 
isolation  did  drive  him  into  composing  a  little  song  with  the 
refrain, 

"  O  Shena,  Shena,  my  heart  is  true 
To  you  where'er  you  go," 

that  was  only  the  last  up-flickering  flame  from  the  dust  and 
ashes  of  the  extinguished  romance  ;  and  the  Master  of  Lynn 
had  done  everything  that  was  required  of  him,  and  bad  a 
fair  right  to  expect  that  his  relatives  would  remember  that 
in  the  future. 


330  YOLANDE. 

And  now  it  can  be  well  understood  how,  as  he  walked 
alone  along  the  shores  of  the  wide  river,  he  should  feel  that 
he  had  been  ill-treated.  Not  even  Janet  Stewart's  friend- 
/ship  was  left  to  him.  He  had  looked  once  more  into  those 
blue  eyes ;  and  he  could  remember  them  shining  with 
laughter,  or  dilated  with  an  awful  majesty  as  Boadicea  ad- 
dressed an  army  of  sheep,  or  perhaps  softening  a  little  in 
farewell  when  he  was  going  away  to  Oxford  ;  but  now  there 
tvas  nothing  but  coldness.  She  did  not  care  to  recall  the 
Did  days.  And  indeed,  as  he  walked  on  and  out  into  the 
country,  some  other  verses  that  he  had  learned  from  Sheua 
Van  in  those  by-gone  days  began  to  come  into  his  head,  and 
he  grew  in  a  way  to  compassionate  himself,  and  to  think  of 
himself  in  future  years  as  looking  back  upon  his  youth  with 
a  strange  and  pathetic  regret — mingled  with  some  other 
feelings. 

"  O,  mind  ye,  luve,  how  aft  we  lelt 

The  deavin',  dinsorae  toun, 
To  wander  by  the  green  burn-fiide 

And  hear  its  water  croon  ? 
The  simmer  leaves  hung  ower  our  he&df, 

The  flowers  burst  round  our  feet, 
And  in  the  gloamin*  o'  the  wood 

The  throssil  whusslit  sweet." 


"  O  dear,  dear  Jeanie  Morrison, 

Since  we  were  sindered  young 
I've  never  seen  your  face,  nor  heard 

The  music  o'  your  tongiie ; 
But  I  could  hug  all  wretchednesi, 

And  happy  could  I  dee, 
Did  I  but  ken  your  heart  still  dreamed 

O'  by-gane  days  and  mel "  * 

These  were  some  of  the  lines  he  remembered  (they  were 
great  favorites  of  Shena  Van  in  former  times)  ;  but  instead 
of  this  compassionating  of  himself  by  proxy,  as  it  were, 
leading  him  to  any  gentleness  of  feeling,  it  only  made  him 
the  more  bitter  and  angry.  "•!  have  had  enough  of  this — 
I  have  had  enough  of  it,"  he  kept  repeating  to  himself. 
"Very  few  men  I  know  have  kept  ai^  straight  as  I  have. 
They'd  better  look  out.  I  have  just  about  enough  of  this." 
That  evening  he  dined  with  the  officers  at  Fort  George, 
and  drank  far  more  wine  than  he  usually  did — for  he  was 
very  abstemious  in  that  direction.  After  dinner  he  pro- 
posed unlimited  loo  ;  but  more  moderate  counsels  prevailed, 


YOLANDE.  331 

and  the  familiar  and  innocent  sixpenny  Nap  was  agreed 
upon.  But  even  at  this  mild  performance  you  can  lose  a 
fair  amount  if  you  persistently  "  go  Nap  "  on  almost  any 
sort  of  a  hand  that  turns  up. 


CHAI^TER  XL. 

A   GUESS. 


Some  well-known  pieces  of  writing  have  described  to  us 
the  ecstatic  visions  vouchsafed  to  the  incipient  opium-eater, 
and  these,  or  some  of  these,  may  be  a  faithful  enough 
record.  At  all  events,  Yolande's  first  and  only  experience 
was  of  a  very  different  character.  All  through  that  terrible 
night  one  horror  succeeded  another,  and  always  she  felt  as 
if  she  were  bound  and  gagged — that  she  could  neither  flee 
away  from  those  hideous  things,  nor  shriek  out  her  fear  and 
cry  for  aid.  First  she  was  in  a  vast  forest  of  impenetrable 
gloom  ;  it  was  night,  and  yet  there  was  a  grayness  in  the 
open  glade  ;  there  was  no  sky  visible  ;  she  was  alone.  Then 
down  one  of  those  glades  came  a  slow  procession — figures 
walking  two  by  two ;  and  at  first  she  thought  they  were 
monks,  but  as  she  came  nearer  she  could  see  that  within 
each  cloak  and  hood  there  was  a  skeleton  with  eyes  of  white 
fire.  They  took  no  heed  of  her;  she  could  not  move;  in 
the  awful  silence  she  beheld  tliem  range  themselves  behind 
ihe  trunks  of  the  great  oaks,  and  although  they  were  now 
invisible,  it  appeared  to  her  that  she  could  still  see  their 
*yes  of  fire,  and  that  they  were  gazing  on  the  figure  of  a 
woman  that  now  drew  near.  The  woman  was  wringing 
her  hands  ;  her  hair  was  dishevelled  ;  she  looked  neither  to 
the  rigl\t  nor  to  the  left.  And  then,  as  she  passed,  the 
spectres  came  out  two  by  two,  and  formed  a  crowd  and  fol- 
lowed her;  they  j^ressed  on  her  and  surrounded  her, 
though  she  did  not  seem  to  see  them ;  it  was  a  doom  over- 
taking her.  The  night  grew  darker ;  a  funeral  song  was 
heard  far  away,  not  as  from  any  opening  heavens,  but 
within  the  black  hollows  of  the  wood — and  then  the  ghastly 
pageant  disappeared. 

Presently  she  was  in  a  white  world   of  snow  and  ice 


332  VOL  AND  E. 

and  a  frantic  despair  had  seized  her,  for  she  knew  that  she 
was  drifting  away  from  the  land.  This  way  and  that  she 
tried  to  escape,  but  always  she  came  to  a  blue  impassable 
chasm.  She  tried  to  spring  from  one  side  to  the  other,  but 
something  held  her  back ;  she  could  not  get  away.  There 
was  a  fire-mountain  there,  the  red  flames  looking  so  strange 
in  the  middle  of  the  white  world  ;  and  the  noise  of  the 
roaring  of  it  was  growing  fainter  and  more  faint  as  she 
floated  away  on  this  moving  ice.  The  sea  that  she  waa 
entering — she  coidd  see  it  far  ahead  of  her — was  black,  but 
a  thin  gray  mist  hung  over  it;  and  she  knew  that  once  she 
was  within  that  mist  she  would  see  nothing  more,  nor  be 
heard  of  more,  for  ever  and  ever.  She  tried  no  longer  to 
escape ;  horror  had  paralyzed  her ;  she  wanted  to  call 
aloud  for  help,  but  could  not.  Denser  and  denser  grew 
the  mist ;  and  now  the  black  sea  was  all  around  her ;  she 
Avas  as  one  already  dead ;  and  when  she  tried  to  think  ot 
those  she  was  leaving  forever,  she  could  not  remember 
them.  Her  friends?  the  people  she  knew?  she  could  re- 
member nothing.  This  vague  terror  and  hopelessness  filled 
her  mind  ;  otherwise  it  was  a  blank;  she  could  look,  but 
she  could  not  think  ;  and  now  the  black  waters  had  reached 
almost  to  her  feet,  and  around  her  were  the  impenetrable 
folds  of  air,  so  that  she  could  no  longer  see. 

And  so  she  passed  from  one  vision  of  terror  to  another  all 
through  the  long  night,  until  in  the  gray  of  the  morning  she 
slowly  awoke  to  a  sort  of  half-stupefied  consciousness.  She 
had  a  headache,  so  frightful  that  at  first  she  could  scarcely 
open  her  eyes ;  but  she  did  not  mind  that ;  she  was  over- 
joyed that  she  could  convince  herself  of  her  escape  from 
those  hideous  phantoms,  and  of  her  being  in  the  actual 
living  world.  Then  she  began  to  recollect.  She  thought 
of  what  she  had  done — perhaps  with  a  little  touch  of  pride, 
as  of  something  that  he  might  approve,  if  ever  he  should 
come  to  know.  Then,  though  her  head  was  throbbing  so 
dreadfully,  she  cautiously  opened  her  eyes  to  look  around. 

No  sooner  had  she  done  so  than  Jane,  who  was  awake, 
stole  noiselessly  to  her  young  mistress's  bedside.  Yolande 
made  a  gesture  to  insure  silence — for  she  saw  that  her 
mother  was  lying  asleep ;  then  she  rose,  wrapped  a  shawl 
round  her,  and  slipped  out  of  the  room,  followed  by  her 
maid. 

«XVliat  shall  I  get  yon,  miss? — I  have  kept  the  firo 
alight  down-stairs.    I  can  get  you  a  cup  of  tea  in  a  minute." 


YOLANDE.  333 

'*No,  no,  never  mind,"  said  Yolande,  pressing  her  hand 
to  her  head.  "  Tell  me  about  my  mother.  How  long  has 
ghe  been  asleep  ?  " 

"  Not  very  long.  Oh,  she  has  passed  a  dreadful  night — > 
the  poor  lady.  She  was  so  excited  at  first  I  thought  she 
would  have  killed  herself ;  but  in  the  end  she  fairly  cried 
herself  to  sleep,  after  I  got  her  to  lie  down  on  the  bed. 
And  you  don't  feel  very  ill,  miss,  I  hope?  But  it  was  a 
terrible  thing  for  you  to  do." 

"What?" 

"I  beg  your  pardon,  miss,"  said  Jane,  with  a  little 
embarrassment;  "but  I  guessed  what  you  had  done.  I 
guessed  from  what  the  poor  lady  said.  Oh,  you  won't  do 
that  again,  will  you  miss  ?  You  might  have  killed  yourself, 
and  then  what  ever  should  I  have  said  to  your  papa  ?  And  I 
don't  think  you  will  ever  have  need  to  do  it  again — I  heard 
what  the  poor  lady  kept  saying  to  herself ;  you  won't  liave 
to  do*  any  such  terrible  thing  again  ;  she  declares  that  she 
will  kill  herself  before  you  have  cause  to  do  that  again." 

"  I  hope  there  won't  be  any  occasion,"  said  Yolande, 
calmly ;  and  then  she  went  to  the  window. 

It  was  truly  a  miserable  morning — dull  and  gray  and 
overclouded  ;  and  it  had  rained  during  the  night;  the  street 
and  the  terrace  were  sodden  and  wet  and  aleaden-hued  sea 
tumbled  on  to  the  em]>ty  beach.  But  notwithstanding  that, 
and  notwithstanding  her  headache,  Yolande  vaguely  felt 
that  she  had  never  looked  on  a  fairer  picture.  Tiiis  plain, 
matter-of-fact,  commonplace  world  was  such  a  beautiful 
thing  after  those  phantom  horrors  through  which  she  had 
passed.  She  liked  to  look  at  the  solid  black  boats  high  up 
on  the  shingle,  at  the  terraced  footway,  at  the  iron  lailing 
along  the  road.  She  began  to  wish  to  be  out  in  that  sub- 
stantial world  ;  to  see  more  of  it,  and  more  closely  :  per- 
haps the  cold  sea-breezes  would  temper  the  racking  pain  in 
her  head  ? 

"  Jane,"  said  she,  "do  you  think  you  could  slip  into  the 
room  and  bring  me  my  things  without  waking  my  mother  ?  " 

**  But  you  are  not  going  out,  miss  ?"  said  the  maid, 
wondering,  "  The  night  is  scarcely  over  yet.  Won't  you 
go  back  and  lie  down  ?  " 

"No,  no,"  said  Yolande,  almost  with  a  shudder  of 
dread.  "  I  have  had  terrible  dreams — I  want  to  get  out- 
side— and  I  have  a  headache  besides.  Perhaps  the  fresh 
air  will  make  it  better.     But  you  can  lie  down,  Jane,  after 


334  YOLANDE. 

I  have  gone  ;  and  don't  wake  my  mother,  no  matter  how 
late  she  sleeps.  When  I  come  back,  perhaps  the  j)eople  in 
the  house  will  be  up,  and  1  shall  try  to  take  some  break- 
fast—" 

"  I  could  get  it  for  you  now,  miss,"  said  Jane,  eagerly. 

"  I  could  not  touch  it,"  the  girl  said,  shivering. 

The  maid  went  and  fetched  her  things  ;  and  when  she  had 
dressed  she  stole  noiselessly  down  the  stairs  and  got  out- 
side. How  cold  and  damp  the  air  felt !  but  yet  it  was  fresh 
and  new  and  strange  ;  the  familiar  sound  of  the  sea  seemed 
pleasant  and  companionable.  As  yet,  in  the  dull  gray 
dawn,  the  little  town  appeared  to  be  asleep  ;  all  the  people 
she  could  find  as  she  passed  were  a  policeman  leaning 
against  a  railing  and  reading  a  newspaper,  two  men  work- 
ing at  the  roadway,  and  a  maid-servant  cleaning  the  win- 
dows of  a  first-floor  parlor.  She  walked  on,  and  pushed 
back  the  haii  from  her  forehead  to  let  the  cold  sea  breeze 
dispel  this  racking  pain.  But  although  the  headache  was 
a  bad  one,  and  although  it  was  a  most  rare  thing  for  her  to 
know  what  a  headache  was,  still  it  did  not  depress  her. 
She  walked  on  with  an  increasing  gladness.  This  was  a  fine, 
real  world ;  there  were  no  more  processions  of  skeletons,  or 
arctic  mists,  or  fields  covered  with  cofiins.  This  was 
Worthing :  there  was  the  pier ;  these  were  most  substantial 
and  actual  waves  that  came  rolling  in  until  they  thundered 
over  and  rushed  seething  and  hissing  up  the  beach.  More- 
over, was  there  not  a  gatliering  sense  of  light  somewhere — 
as  if  the  day  were  opening  and  inclined  to  shine  ?  As  she 
walked  on  in  the  direction  of  Lower  Lancing  a  more  spa- 
cious view  of  sea  and  sky  opened  out  before  her,  and  it 
appeared  to  her  that  away  in  the  direction  of  Brighton  the 
clouds  seemed  inclined  to  band  up.  And  then,  graduallv 
and  here  and  there,  faint  gleams  of  a  warmer  light  came 
shooting  over  from  the  east ;  and  in  course  of  time,  as  she 
still  followed  the  windings  of  the  shore,  the  rising  sun  shone 
level  along  the  sea,  and  the  yellow  brown  waves,  though 
their  curved  hollows  were  in  shadows  as  they  rolled  on  to 
the  beach,  had  silver-gleaming  ci  ""  "^nd  the  wide  stretches 
of  retreating  foam  that  gurgled  a  n-  '  down  the  shingly 
slopes  were  a  glare  of  cream  whi^  g  to  the  eyes. 

She    walked    quickly — and    pre  he  had    played  a 

bold  game,  and  she  hoped  that  shi  'in.      Nay,  more, 

she  was  prepared  to  play  it  again.    Sj  not  shrink  fi'oni 

any  sacrifice.     It  was  with  no  light  h  she  had  under- 


YOLANDE.  335 

taken  tLis  duty.  And  would  he  approve  ? — that  was  always 
her  secret  thought,  though  generally  she  tried  to  banish  all 
remembrances  of  what  was  by-gone.  Should  he  ever  come 
to  know  of  what  she  had  done  ?  For  it  was  her  own  plan- 
ning. It  was  not  his  suggestion  at  all ;  probably,  if  he  had 
thought  of  such  a  means  of  terrorism,  he  would  not  have 
dared  to  recommend  it.  But  she  had  laid  this  plan  ;  and 
she  watched  her  opportunity ;  and  she  was  glad  that  some 
days  had  elapsed  before  that  opportunity  had  occurred,  so 
that  her  mother  had  had  time  to  become  attached  to  her.  And 
what  if  that  once  did  not  suffice  ?  Well,  she  was  prepared 
to  go  on.  It  was  only  a  headache  (and  even  'that  was 
quietly  lessening,  for  she  had  an  elastic  constitution,  and  was 
a  most  capable  walker).  What  were  a  few  headaches  ?  But 
no,  she  did  not  think  that  much  repitition  of  this  experiment 
would  be  necessary  ;  she  could  not  believe  that  any  mother 
alive  could  look  on  and  see  her  daughter  poisoning  herself 
to  save  her. 

The  morning  cleared  and  brightened.  When  she  got 
to  Lancing  she  struck  inland  by  the  quiet  country  ways ;  a 
kind  of  gladness  filled  her.  And  if  she  should  be  successful, 
after  all — if  the  thing  that  she  had  feared  was  to  turn  out  a 
beautiful  thing,  if  the  rescue  of  this  poor  mother  was  to  be 
her  reward — what  should  she  not  owe  him  who  liad  told 
her  what  her  duty  was  !  He  had  not  been  afraid  to  tell 
her,  altliough  she  was  only  a  girl.  Ah,  and  where  was  he 
now?  Driven  away  into  banishment,  perhaps,  by  what 
had  happened  up  there  in  the  north,  through  her  blindness 
and  carelessness.  Once  or  twice  indeed,  durino^  these  lonoj 
evenings,  she  had  followed  out  a  curious  fancy  that  perhaps 
his  crossing  the  Monalea  hills  to  catch  the  afternoon  train 
at  Kingussie  had  really  some  connection  with  her  coming 
south.  Had  he  wished  to  see  that  she  was  secure  and 
guarded,  now  that  she  was  embarked  on  an  errand  of  his 
suggestion  ?  It  pleased  her  to  think  of  him  being  in  the 
same  train.  Perhaps,  in  the  cold  gray  morning  at  Euston 
Station,  standing  backward  from  the  people,  he  had 
watched  her  get  into  the  cab  ;  perhaps  he  had  even  fol- 
lowed in  his  own  cab,  and  seen  her  enter  the  hotel?  Why 
should  he  have  hurried  to  catch  that  particular  train  ?  Why 
should  he  have  adopted  that  arduous  route  across  the  hills, 
unless  it  was  that  he  wished  to  travel  with  her,  and  yet 
without  her  knowing  it  ?    But  it  was  so  strange  he  should 


336  YOLANDE, 

make  this  long  journey  merely  to  see  that  she  was  safely 
lodged  in  her  hotel. 

Now  she  had  been  studying  this  matter  on  one  or  two 
occasions,  and  letting  her  fancy  play  about  it  with  a  strange 
curiosity  ;  but  it  was  on  this  particular  morning,  as  she  was 
entering  the  little  village  of  Sonipting,  that  a  new  light  sud- 
denly flashed  in  on  her.  Who  was  i^  who  had  told  Lawrence 
&  Lang  of  her  being  in  London  ?  Who  had  explained  to 
them  what  her  business  was  ?  wlio  had  asked  Mr.  Lang  to 
go  to  her  hotel  and  see  her?  Was  it  possible,  then,  that 
he  liad  journeyed  to  London  in  that  same  train,  and  gone 
direct  to  the  lawyer's  office,  so  that  she  should  have  their 
assistance  ?  He  knew  they  were  her  father's  lawyers,  for 
she  herself  had  told  him  to  whom  she  should  apply  in  case 
of  difficulty ;  whereas,  on  the  other  hand,  it  was  not  possi- 
ble for  lier  father  to  have  written.  Had  he  been  guarding 
her,  then,  and  watching  over  her  all  that  time — perhaps 
even  looking  on  ?  And  if  looking  on — Then,  in  a  breath- 
less kind  of  way,  she  recalled  the  circumstances  of  her  tak* 
ing  h6r  mother  away.  She  had  been  disturbed  and  bewil- 
dered, no  doubt ;  still,  had  she  not  the  impression  of  some 
one  darting  by — some  one  who  felled  the  man  who  had 
seized  her  arm,  and  then  passed  quickly  by?  Surely  surely 
it  must  have  been  he.  Who  else  could  have  known  ?  Who 
else  could  have  interfered  ?  Her  heart  grew  warm  with  grati- 
tude toward  him.  Ah,  there  was  the  true  friend,  watch- 
ing over  her,  but  still  keeping  back,  and  unrequited  by  a 
single  word  of  thanks.  She  began  to  convince  herself  that 
this  must  have  been  so.  She  accused  herself  of  blindness 
that  slie  had  not  seen  it  before.  And  for  how  long  had  his 
guardianship  continued  ?  When  had  he  gone  away  ? 
Perhaps — 

Then  her  face  grew  pale.  Perhaps  he  was  even  now  in 
Worthing,  still  exercising  this  invisible  care  over  her?  Per- 
haps she  might  meet  him,  by  some  accident,  in  the  street? 
She  stopped  short  in  the  road,  apparently  afraid  to  go  on. 
For  what  would  their  meeting  be,  if  such  a  meeting  were  to 
happen  ? — But  no,  it  would  not  happen — it  should  not  hap- 
pen. Even  if  he  were  in  Worthing  (and  she  tried  to  get 
rid  of  the  dreams  and  fancies  begotten  of  this  morning 
walk)  he  would  not  seek  to  see  her ;  he  would  avoid  her 
rather ;  he  would  know,  as  well  as  she,  that  it  was  not  fit 
and  proper  that  tney  should  meet.  And  why  should  he  be 
iu  Worthing  ?    His  guardianship  there  could  be  of  no  avail : 


YOLANDE.  V 

she  had  nothing  to  fear  in  any  direction  where  he  could 
help.  The  more  she  calmly  reviewed  the  possibilities  of 
the  case  the  more  she  considered  it  likely  that  he  had  indeed 
come  to  London  with  her  ;  that  he  had  given  instructions 
to  the  lawyers ;  perhaps,  even,  that  he  had  been  present 
when  she  bore  her  mother  off ;  but  even  if  these  things  were 
so,  by  this  time  he  must  have  left,  perceiving  that  he  could 
do  no  more.  And  whither  ?  She  had  a  kind  of  dim  notion 
that  he  would  not  quickly  return  to  Gress.  But  whitiier, 
then — whither?  She  saw  him  an  outcast  and  a  wanderer, 
she  imagined  him  away  in  far  places,  and  the  morning 
seemed  less  cheerful  now.  Her  face  grew  grave;  she 
walked  firmly  on.  She  was  returning  to  her  appointed 
task,  and  to  any  trials  that  might  be  in  store  for  her  in  con- 
nection with  it. 

She  was  getting  near  to  Broadwater,  when  she  saw 
along  the  road  a  pony-carriage  coming  quickly  in  her 
direction ;  the  next  moment  she  perceived  that  her  mother 
was  in  it,  and  that  Jane  (who  had  been  brought  up  in  the 
country)  was  driving.  A  few  seconds  sufficed  to  bring 
them  to  her ;  and  then  the  mother,  who  seemed  much  ex- 
cited, got  out  from  the  trap  and  caught  her  daughter  by 
both  shoulders,  and  stroked  her  hair  and  her  face  in  a  sort 
of  delirium  of  joy. 

"  We  have  been  driving  everywhere  in  search  of  you — 
I  was  so  afraid.  Ah,  you  are  alive  and  well,  and  beautiful 
as  ever.     My  child,  my  child,  I  have  not  murdered  you !  " 

"  Hush  mother,*'  said  the  girl,  quite  calmly.  "  It  is  a 
pity  you  got  up  so  early.  I  came  out  for  a  walk,  because 
my  head  was  bad  ;  it  is  getting  better  now.  I  will  drive 
you  back  if  you  like." 

She  drew  the  girl  aside  for  a  few  yards,  caressing  lier 
arm  and  stroking  her  fingers. 

"My  child,  I  ought  to  be  ashamed  and  miserable;  bui 
to  see  you  alive  and  well — I — I  was  in  des])air — I  was  afraid. 
But  you  need  not  fear  any  more,  Yolande,  you  need  not 
fear  any  more." 

*'I  hope  not,  mother,"  said  Yolande,  gravely,  and  she 
regarded  her  mother.  "  For  I  think  I  would  rather  die 
than  go  through  again  such  a  night  as  last  night." 

"  But  you  need  not  fear — you  need  not  fear,"  said  the 
other,  pressing  her  hand.  *'01i  no  ;  when  I  saw  you  lyino, 
on  the  bed  last  night,  then — then  I  seemed  to  know  wliatl 


338  YOLANDE. 

was.  But  you  need  not  fear.  Ko,  never  again  will  you 
have  to  poison  yourself  in  order  to  shame  ine." 

"  It  was  not  to  shame  you  mother ;  it  was  to  ask  you 
not  to  take  any  more  of  that — that  medicine." 

"  You  need  not  fear,  Yolande,  you  need  not  fear,"  she  re 
peated  eagerly.  "  Oh  no  ;  I  have  everything  prepared  now, 
I  will  never  again  touch  it ;  you  shall  never  have  to  sacri- 
fice yourslef  like  that — " 

"  Well,  I  am  glad  of  it,  dear  mother,  for  both  oursakes," 
Yolande  said.     "  I  hope  it  will  not  cost  you  riiuch  suffer 

"  Oh  no,  it  will  not  cost  me  much  suffering,"  said  the 
mother,  with  a  strange  sort  of  smile. 

Something  in  the  manner  attracted  her  daughter's  atten- 
tion. 

"  Shall  we  go  back  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  But  I  wish  you  to  understand,  Yolande,  that  you  need 
have  no  longer  any  fear — " 

**  You  have  promised,  mother." 

"  Yes  ;  but  did  I  not  promise  before  ?  Ah,  you — you,  so 
young,  so  strong,  so  self-reliant — you  can  not  tell  how  weak 
one  can  be.  But  now  that  is  all  over.  This  time  I  know. 
This  time  I  can  tell  that  I  have  tasted  that  poison  for  the 
last  time — if  there  were  twenty  bottles  standing  by,  it  would 
not  matter." 

"  You  must  nerve  yourself,  mother — " 

"  Oh  but  I  have  made  it  secure  in  another  way,"  she 
said,  with  a  curious  smile. 

*'  How,  then  ?  " 

"  Well,  what  am  I  worth  in  the  world  ?  What  is  the 
value  of  my  life  ?  It  is  a  wreck  and  worthless ;  to  save  it  for 
a  week,  for  a  day,  would  I  let  you  have  one  more  headache, 
.'ind  be  driven  away  into  the  country  by  myself  like  this? 
Ah,  no,  Yolande  ;  but  now  you  are  secure  ;  there  will  be  no 
more  of  that.  When  I  feel  that  I  must  break  my  promise 
again,  when  I  am  like  to  die  with  weakness  and — and  the 
craving,  then,  if  there  were  twenty  bottles  standing  by,  you 
need  not  fear,  tf  living  is  not  bearable,  then,  rather  than 
you  should  do  again  what  you  did  last  night,  I  will  kill  my- 
self— and  gladly." 

Yolande  regarded  her  with  the  same  calm  air. 

"And  that  is  the  end  you  have  appointed  for  me 
mother?" 


YOLANDE,  S39 

Her  mother  was  stupified  for  a  second ;  then  she  uttered 
ft  short,  quick  cry  of  terror. 

"  Yolande,  what  do  you  mean  ?  " 

"  I  think  I  have  told  you,  mother,  that  I  mean  to  follow 
your  example  in  all  things — to  the  end,  whatever  it  may  be. 
Do  not  let  us  speak  of  it." 

She  put  her  hand  on  her  mother's  arm,  and  led  her 
back  to  the  pony-carriage.  But  the  poor  woman  was  trem- 
bling violenily.  This  terrible  threat  had  quite  unnerved  her. 
It  had  seemed  to  her  easy — if  the  worst  came  to  the  worst, 
if  slie  could  control  her  craving  no  longer — that,  sooner 
than  lier  daughter  should  be  sacrificed,  she  herself  should 
throw  away  this  worthless  fragment  of  existence  that  re- 
mained to  her.  And  now  Yolande's  manner  frightened  her. 
This  easy  way  of  escape  was  going  to  produce  the  direst  of 
catastrophes.  She  regarded  the  girl — who  was  ])re-occupied 
and  thouglitful,  and  who  allowed  Jane  to  continue  to  drive 
— all  the  way  back ;  and  there  was  something  in  her  look 
that  sent  the  conviction  to  her  mother's  heart  that  that  had 
been  no  idle  menace. 

When  they  got  back  to  Worthing,  Yolande  set  about 
the  usual  occupa^^^ions  of  the  day  with  her  accustomed  com- 
posure, and  even  with  a  measure  of  cheerfulness.  She 
seemed  to  attach  little  importance  to  the  incident  that  had 
just  happened  ;  and  probably  wished  her  motlier  to  under- 
stand that  she  meant  to  see  this  thing  through,  as  slie  had 
begun  it.  But  it  was  pitiable  to  see  the  remorse'  on  the 
mother's  face  when  a  slight  contraction  of  Yolande's  brows 
told  that  from  time  to  time  her  head  still  swam  with  pain. 

The  first  hamper  of  game  arrived  from  the  north  that 
day  ;  and  it  was  with  a  curious  interest  that  the  motlier  (who 
was  never  done  wondering  at  her  daughter's  knowledge  and 
accomplishments  and  opinions)  listened  to  all  that  Yolande 
could  tell  her  about  the  various  birds  and  beasts.  As  yet 
the  ptarmigan  showed  no  signs  of  donning  their  winter 
plumage  ;  but  the  mountain  hares  here  and  there — especially 
about  the  legs — showed  traces  of  white  appearing  under- 
neath the  brownish-gray.  Both  at  the  foot  and  at  the  top 
of  the  hamper  was  a  thick  bed  of  stag's-horn  moss  (which 
grows  in  extraordinary  luxuriance  at  Alt-nam-Ba),  and  Yo- 
lande guessed — and  guessed  correctly — that  Duncan,  who 
had  observed  her  on  one  or  two  occasions  bring  home  some 
of  that  moss,  had  fancied  that  the  young  lady  would  like  to 
have  some  sent  to  her  to  the  south.     And  she  wondered 


340  YOLANDE. 

whether  there  was  any  other  part  of  the  world  where 
people  were  so  thoughtful  and  so  kind,  even  to  visitors  who 
were  almost  strangers  to  them. 

At  night,  when  Yolande  went  into  the  bedroom,  sha 
noticed  that  there  was  no  bottle  on  the  mantel-piece. 

*'Where  is  it,  mother  ?  "  she  said. 

"  I  have  thrown  it  away.  You  need  not  fear  now, 
Yolande,"  her  motlier  saia.  And  then  she  regarded  her 
daughter.  *'  Don't  mind  what  I  said  this  morning,  child. 
It  was  foolish.  If  I  can  not  bear  the  suffering  well,  il  can  not 
be  so  hard  a  thing  to  die ;  that  must  come  if  one  waits." 

*'  You  are  not  going  to  die,  mother."  said  Yolande,  gently 
patting  her  on  the  shoulder.  '*  You  are  going  to  live  ;  for 
some  day,  as  soon  as  you  are  strong  enough,  you  and  I  are 
going  to  Nice,  to  drive  all  the  way  along  to  Genoa  ;  and  I 
know  all  the  prettiest  places  to  stop  at.  But  you  must  have 
courage  and  hope  and  determination.  And  you  must  get 
well  quickly,  mother  ;  for  I  should  like  to  go  away  with 
you  ;  it  is  such  a  long,  long  time  sence  I  smelt  the  lemon 
blossom  in  the  air." 


CHAPTER  XLI. 


A   MESSAGE. 


As  subsequent  events  were  to  prove,  Yolande  had,  by 
this  one  bold  stroke,  achieved  the  victory  she  had  set  her 
heart  upon.  But  as  yet  she  could  not  know  that.  She 
could  not  tell  that  the  frantic  terror  of  the  poor  mother  at 
the  thought  that  she  might  have  killed  her  only  cliild  would 
leave  an  impression  strong  enough  to  be  a  sufficient  safe- 
guard. Indeed,  she  could  see  no  end  to  the  undertaking  on 
Jvhich  she  had  entered;  but  she  was  determined  to  prose- 
;ute  that  with  unfailing  patience,  and  with  the  hope  in  the 
dual  result ;  and  also,  perhaps,  with  the  consciousness  thai; 
this  immediate  duty  absorbed  her  from  the  consideration 
uf  other  problems  of  her  life. 

But  while  she  tried  to  shut  up  all  her  cares  and  interests 
within  this  little  town  of  Worthing — devising  new  amuse- 
yji^'iiLs  and  occupations,  keeping  her  mother  as  much  aspos- 


YOLANDE!li.\J  .  .  ..  841 


%vf^  ?^side 


sible  in  the  open  air,  and  lightly  piis^iiig  j^side  the  poor 
woman's  remorse  over  the  incidents  of  that  critical  night-— 
there  came  to  her  reminders  from  the  outer  and  -farthei 
world.  Among  these  was  the  following  letter  from  the 
Master  of  Lynn,  which  she  read  with  strangely  diverse  emo- 
tions contending  for  mastery  in  her  mind  : 

"Station  Hotel,  Invebness,  Oc«o6er2. 

*'  My  dearest  Tolande, — It  is  only  this  morning  that 
I  have  got  your  address  from  Allt-nam-Ba ;  and  I  write  at 
once,  though  perhaps  you  will  not  care  to  be  bothered  with 
much  correspondence  just  at  present.  Your  father  has  told 
me  what  has  taken  you  to  the  south,  and  indeed  I  had 
guessed  something  of  the  kind  from  the  note  you  sent  me 
when  you  were  leaving.  I  hope  you  are  well,  and  not  over- 
troubled  ;  and  when  you  have  time  I  should  be  glad  to  have 
a  line  from  you — though  I  shall  not  misconstrue  your  silence 
if  you  prefer  to  be  silent.  In  fact,  I  probably  should  not 
write  to  you  now  but  that  your  father  is  leaving  Allt-nam- 
Ba  shortly,  and  I  suppose  he  will  see  you  as  soon  as  he  goes 
south,  and  I  think  I  am  bound  to  give  you  some  explanation 
as  to  how  matters  stand.  No  doubt  he  will  think  it  strange 
that  I  have  rather  kept  out  of  his  way,  and  very  likely  he 
will  be  surprised  that  my  father  has  never  called  at  the 
lodge,  or  shown  any  sign  of  civility,  and  so  forth.  Well, 
the  plain  truth  is,  dear  Yolande,  that  I  have  quarrelled  with 
my  father,  if  that  can  be  called  a  quarrel  which  is  all  on  one 
side — for  I  simply  retire,  on  my  part,  and  seek  quiet  in  an 
Inverness  hotel.  The  cause  of  the  quarrel,  or  estrangement 
is  that  is  he  opposed  to  our  marriage ;  and  he  has  been  put  up 
to  oppose  it,  I  imagine,  chiefly  by  my  aunt,  the  elderly  and 
agi'eeable  lady  whom  you  will  remember  meeting  at  the 
Towers.  I  think  I  am  bound  in  honor  to  let  you  know  this  ; 
not  that  it  in  the  least  affects  you  or  me,  as  far  as  our  mar- 
riage is  concerned,  for  I  am  old  enough  to  manage  my  own 
affairs ;  but  in  order  to  explain  a  discourtesy  which  may 
very  naturally  have  offended  your  father,  and  also  to  ex- 
plain why  I,  feeling  ashamed  of  the  whole  business,  have 
rather  kept  back,  and  so  failed  to  thank  your  father,  as 
otherwise  I  should  have  done,  for  his  kindness  to  me.  Of 
course  I  knew  very  well,  when  we  became  engaged  in  Egypt, 
that  my  father,  whose  political  opinions  are  of  a  fine  old 
crusted  order,  would  be  rather  aghast  at  my  marrying  the 


342  YOLANDE. 

.  daughter  of  the  Member  of  Slagpool ;  but  I  felt  sure  that 
when  he  saw  you  and  knew  you,  dear  Yolande,  he  w^ould 
liave  no  objection  ;  and  indeed  I  did  not  anticipate  that  tlie 
eloquence  of  my  venerated  aunt  would  have  deprived  him 
of  the  use  of  his  senses.  One  ought  not  to  Avrite  so  of  one's 
])arcnt,  I  know  ;  but  facts  are  facts  ;  and  if  you  are  driven 
out  of  your  own  home  through  the  bigotry  of  an  old 
man  and  the  cattish  temper  of  an  old  woman,  and  if 
you  have  the  most  angelic  of  sisters  take  to  nagging  at  you 
with  letters,  and  if  you  are  forced  into  sweet  seclusion  of  a 
hotel  adjoining  a  railway  station,  tlien  the  humor  of  the 
whole  affair  begins  to  be  apparent,  and  you  may  be  inclined 
to  call  things  by  their  real  names.  I  have  written  to  your 
father  to  say  that  he  need  not  bother  about  either  the  dogs 
or  horses ;  when  he  has  left  I  will  run  down  to  AUt-nam-Ba 
and  see  them  sent  off ;  but  I  have  not  told  him  why  I  am  at 
present  in  Inverness ;  and  I  tell  you,  my  dear  Yolande,  be- 
cause I  think  you  ought  to  know  exactly  how  matters  stand. 
I  should  not  be  at  all  surprised  to  hear  from  you  that  you 
had  imagined  something  of  the  state  of  the  case ;  for  you 
must  have  wondered  at  their  not  asking  you  and  your 
father  to  dinner,  or  something  of  the  kind,  after  Polly  taking 
you  to  the  Towers  when  you  first  came  north  ;  but,  at  all 
events,  this  is  how  we  are  situated  now,  and  I  should  be  in- 
clined to  make  a  joke  of  the  whole  affair  if  it  were  not  that 
when  I  think  of  you  I  feel  a  little  bit  indignant.  Of  course 
it  can  not  matter  to  you — not  in  the  least.  It  is  disagree- 
able, that  is  all.  If  dogs  delight  to  bark  and  bite,  it  does 
not  much  matter  so  long  as  they  keep  their  barking  and 
biting  among  themselves.  It  is  rather  hard,  certainly,  when 
they  take  possession  of  your  house,  and  turn  you  out  into 
the  street ;  especially  when  you  have  a  lovely  sister  come 
and  accuse  you  of  having  no  higher  ambition  in  life  than 
playing  billiards  with  commercial  travellers. 

"  I  shall  hang  on  here,  I  expect,  until  our  other  tenants 
— they  who  have  the  forest — leaves  for  the  south  ;  then  I 
shall  be  able  to  make  some  final  arrangements  with  our 
agent  here  ;  after  which  I  shall  consider  myself  free.  You 
must  tell  me,  dear  Yolande,  when  and  where  you  wish  to 
see  me.  Of  course  I  don't  wish  to  inconvenience  or  trouble 
you  in  any  wa}^ — I  shall  leave  it  er.tirely  in  your  hands  as 
to  what  you  would  have  me  do.  Perhaps,  if  I  go  away  for 
a  while,  the  people  at  Lynn  may  come  to  their  senses. 
Polly  has  been  at  them  once  or   twice;    she  is  a  warm   ally 


YOLANDE.  843 

of  yours ;  but,  to  tell  you  the  truth,  I  would  not  have  you 
made  the  subject  of  any  appeal.  No  word  of  that  kind 
shall  come  from  me.  Most  likely  when  the  last  of  the 
people  that  the  Grahams  have  with  them  at  Inverstwy  have 
gone,  Polly  may  go  over  to  Lynn  and  establish  herself 
there,  and  have"  a  battle  royal  with  my  revered  aunt.  Of 
course  I  would  not  bother  you  with  the  details  of  this 
wretched  family  squabble  if  I  did  not  think  that  some  ex- 
planation were  due  both  to  you  and  to  your  father. 

"I  shall  be  glad  to  hear  from  you,  if  you  are  not  too 
much  occupied.     Yours,  affectionately, 

"AucniE  Leslie. 

"P.S. — I  hope  to  be  able  to  leave  here  about  the  22d." 

Her  first  impulse  was  to  rush  away  at  once  and  tele- 
graph to  him,  begging  him  not  to  come  south ;  but  a 
moment's  reflection  showed  her  that  was  unnecessary.  She 
re-read  the  letter ;  there  was  nothing  of  the  impetuosity  of 
a  lover  in  it,  but  rather  a  studied  kindness,  and  also  a  reti- 
cence with  regard  to  her  present  surroundings  and  occupa- 
tions that  she  could  not  but  respect.  For  she  knew  as  well 
as  any  one  that  this  matter  concerned  him  too ;  and  she 
could  even  have  forgiven  a  trace  of  apprehension  on  his 
part,  seeing  that  a  young  man  about  to  marry  is  naturally 
curious  about  the  new  conditions  that  are  to  surround  him. 
His  silence  on  this  point  seemed  part  of  the  careful  conside- 
ration that  prevailed  throughout  this  message  to  her.  Then 
it  was  so  clear  that  he  would  be  ruled  by  her  wishes.  He 
was  not  coming  to  claim  her  by  the  right  he  had  acquired. 
She  could  put  away  this  letter  for  future  consideration,  as 
she  had  for  the  moment  put  aside  her  engagement  ring. 
While  she  was  first  reading  it,  some  strange  fancies  and 
feelings  had  held  possession  of  her — a  quick  contrition,  a 
desire  to  tell  him  everything,  and  so  release  herself  from 
this  bond,  a  remonstrance  with  herself,  and  a  vague  kind  of 
hope  that  she  might  make  atonement  by  a  life-long  devo- 
tion to  him,  after  this  first  duty  to  her  mother  had  been 
accomplished.  But  these  conflicting  resolves  she  forced 
herself  to  discard.  She  would  not  even  answer  this  letter 
now,  "jChere  was  no  hurry.  He  would  not  come  to 
Worthing  if  she  did  not  wish  it.  And  was  it  not  fortu- 
nate that  she  could  turn  aside  from  unavailing  regrets,  and 
from  irresolute  means  and  purposes,  to  the  actual  needs  of 
the  moment  ?     She  calmly  put  the  letter  in  her  pocket,  and 


344  YOLANDE. 

went  away  to  see  whether  her  mother  were  not  ready  fof 
her  morning  drive.  And  now  it  had  come  to  pass  that 
whenever  Yolande  dr.ew  near  there  was  a  look  of  affection 
and  gratitude  in  this  poor  woman's  eyes  that  made  the 
girl's  heart  glad. 

Day  after  day  passed ;  the  weather  happened  to  be  fine, 
and  their  exploration  of  the  surrounding  country  was  un- 
wearied. The  castles  of  Arundel  and  Bramber,  the  parka 
of  Augmering  and  Bad  worth,  Harrow  Hill,  Amberley  Wild 
Brook,  SuUington,  Washington,  Storrington,  Ashington— « 
they  knew  them  all ;  and  they  had  so  educated  the  wise 
old  pony  that,  when  Jane  was  not  with  them,  and  they 
were  walking  along  by  the  hedgeways  or  climbing  a  hill, 
they  could  safely  leave  him  and  the  pony-carriage  far  be- 
hind them,  knowing  that  he  would  come  up  at  his  leisure, 
keeping  his  own  side  of  the  road,  and  refusing  to  be 
tempted  by  the  greenest  of  way-side  patches.  Yolande, 
both  at  home  and  abroad,  was  always  on  the  watch,  and 
carefully  concealed  the  fact.  But  now  she  was  beginning 
less  and  less  to  fear,  and  more  and  more  to  hope ;  nay,  at 
times,  and  rather  in  spite  of  herself,  a  joyful  conviction 
would  rest  upon  her  that  she  had  already  succeeded.  Four 
days  after  that  relapse,  a  desperate  fit  of  depression  over- 
took the  poor  woman ;  but  she  bravely  fought  through  it, 

"  You  need  not  fear  this  time,  Yolande,"  she  would  say, 
with  a  sad  smile.  "  I  said  that  once  before,  but  I  did  not 
know  then.  I  had  not  seen  you  lying  on  the  bed — perhaps 
dying,  as  I  thought.  You  shall  have  no  more  headaches 
through  me." 

"  Ah,  dear  mother,"  said  Yolande,  "  in  a  little  time  you 
will  not  even  think  of  such  things.  You  will  have  forgotten 
them.     It  will  be  all  like  a  dream  to  you." 

"  Yes,  like  a  dream— like  a  dream,"  the  other  said,  ab- 
s(3ntly.  ''  It  was  in  a  dream  that  you  came  to  me.  I  could 
not  understand — I  heard  you,  but  I  could  not  understand. 
And  then  it  seemed  that  you  were  leading  me  away,  but  I 
scarcely  knew  who  you  were.  And  the  evening  in  the  hotel, 
when  you  were  showing  me  your  things,  I  could  scarcely 
believe  it  all ;  and  when  you  said  you  would  get  me  a  dress- 
ing-bag, I  asked  myself  why  I  should  take  that  from  a  stran- 
ger. You  were  so  new  to  me — and  tall — and  so  beautiful 
— it  was  a  kind  of  wonder — I  could  not  think  you  were  in- 
deed my  own  daughter,  but  a  kind  of  angel,  and  I  was  glad 
to  follow  you." 


YOLANDE,  345 

"  Woll;  I  carried  you  off,"  said  Tolande,  plainly  (for  she 
did  not  like  to  encourago  fantasy).  "  There  is  no  mistake 
about  it ;  aud  I  shall  not  let  you  go  back  to  those  friends  of 
yours,  who  were  not  at  all  good  friends  to  you ;  that  also  is 
quite  certain." 

"  Oh,  no,  no  ?  "  she  would  say,  grasping  the  girl's  hand. 
"  I  am  not  going  back — never,  never,  to  that  house  !  You 
need  not  fear  now,  Yolande." 

It  has  already  been  mentioned  that  this  poor  woman 
was  greatly  astonished  that  Yolande  should  know  so  much, 
and  should  have  seen  so  much,  and  read  so  many  different 
things.  And  this  proved  to  be  a  iield  of  quite  unlimited 
interest ;  for  there  was  not  a  single  opinion  or  experience  of 
the  girl  that  she  did  not  regard  with  a  strange  fascination 
and  sympathy.  Whether  Yolande  was  relating  to  her  leg- 
endary stories  of  Brittany,  of  which  she  knew  a  good  many, 
or  describing  the  lonely  streets  of  Pompeii,  or  telling  her  of 
the  extraordinary  clearness  of  the  atmosphere  in  Washington 
(the  physical  atmosphere,  that  is),  she  listened  with  a  kind 
of  wonder,  and  with  the  keenest  curiosity  to  know  moi^e  and 
more  of  this  young  life  that  had  grown  up  apart  from  hers. 
And  tlien  Yolande  so  far  wandered  from  the  path  of  virtue 
— as  laid  down  by  her  father — as  sometimes  to  read  aloud 
in  French  ;  and  while  she  frequently  halted  and  stumbled  in 
reading  aloud  in  English,  there  never  was  any  stumbling, 
but  rather  a  touch  of  pride,  when  she  was  pronouncing 
such  sonorous  line  as  tliis — 

"  La  vaste  mere  murmure  autour  de  son  cercueil," 

and  it  was  strange  to  the  poor  mother  that  her  daughter 
should  be  more  at  home  in  reading  French  than  reading 
English.  She  would  ask  the  minutest  questions — about  Yo- 
lande's  life  at  the  Chateau,  about  her  life  on  board  ship 
during  her  various  voyages,  about  her  experiences  in  those 
mountain  solitudes  of  the  north.  Her  anxiety  to  be  always 
in  the  society  of  her  daughter  was  insatiable  ;  she  could 
scarcely  bear  to  have  her  out  of  sight.  And  when  Lawrence 
&  Lang  sent  her,  in  the  course  of  time,  her  usual  allowance 
of  money,  her  joy  was  extreme.  For  now,  whenever  she 
and  Yolande  went  out,  she  scanned  the  shop  windows  with 
an  eager  interest,  and  always  she  was  buying  this,  that,  or 
the  other  trinket,  or  bit  of  pretty-colored  silk,  or  something 
of  the  kind  for  the  girl  to  wear.     Yolande  had  rather  severu 


346  YOLANDE. 

notions  in  the  -^ay  of  personal  adornment ;  but  she  was  well 
content  to  put  a  bit  of  color  round  her  neck  or  an  additionaj 
silver  hoop  round  her  wrist  when  she  saw  the  pleasure  in 
her  mother's  eyes. 

At  length  she  felt  justified  in  sending  the  following  let- 
ter to  her  father : 

**  WoKTHiNG,  October  12. 

"  My  dear  Papa, — I  intend  this  to  reach  you  before 
you  leave  Allt-nam-Ba,  because  it  carries  good  news,  and  I 
know  you  have  been  anxious.  I  think  every  thing  goes  well 
— sometimes  I  am  quite  sure  of  it — sometimes  I  look  forward 
to  such  a  bright  future.  It  has  been  a  great  struggle  and 
pain  (but  not  to  me  ;  please  do  not  speak  of  me  at  all  in 
your  letters,  because  that  is  nothing  at  all),  but  I  have  not 
so  much  fear  now.  Perhaps  it  is  too  soon  to  be  certain ; 
but  I  can  not  explain  to  you  in  a  letter  what  it  is  that  gives 
me  such  hope,  that  drives  away  what  reason  suggests,  and 
compeis  me  to  think  that  all  will  be  well.  Partly  it  is  my 
mother's  look.  There  is  an  assurance  in  it  of  her  determi- 
nation— of  her  feeling  that  all  is  safe  now  ;  again  and  again 
she  says  to  me,  "  T  have  been  in  a  dream,  but  now  I  am 
come  out  of  it.  You  need  not  fear  now."  Mr.  Melville  said 
I  was  not  to  be  too  sanguine,  and  always  to  be  watchful ; 
and  1  try  to  be  that ;  but  I  can  not  fight  against  the  joyful 
conviction  that  my  mother  is  now  safe  from  that  thing. 
Only  she  is  so  weak  and  ill  yet — she  tries  to  be  brave  and 
cheerful,  to  give  me  comfort  ;  but  she  suffers.  Dear  papa, 
it  is  madness  that  you  should  reproach  yourself  for  doing 
nothing,  and  propose  to  take  us  to  the  Mediterranean.  No, 
no  ;  it  will  not  do  at  all.  My  mother  is  too  weak  yet  to  go 
anywhere;  when  she  is  well  enough  to  go  I  will  take  her; 
but  1  must  take  her  alone  ;  she  is  now  used  to  me  ;  there 
must  be  no  such  excitement  as  would  exist  if  you  were  to 
come  for  us.  I  am  very  thankful  to  Mr.  Shortlands  that 
you  are  going  to  Dalescroft ;  and  I  hope  you  will  find  charm- 
ing people  at  his  house,  and  also  that  the  shooting  is  good. 
Dear  papa,  I  hope  you  will  be  able  to  go  over  to  "S lag- 
pool  while  you  are  in  the  north ;  and  perhaps  you  might 
give  an  address  or  deliver  a  lecture — there  are  many  of  the 
members  doing  that  now,  as  I  see  by  the  newspapers  and 
you  owe  something  to  your  constituents  for  not  grumbling; 
about  your  going  to  Egypt.  ' 


fl 


yOLANDE.  347 

"  I  hope  everytliing  lias  been  comfortable  at  the  lodge 
since  I  left ;  but  that  I  am  sure  of,  for  Mrs.  Bell  would  take 
care.  You  must  buy  her  something  very  pretty  when  you 
get  to  Inverness,  and  send  it  to  her  as  from  you  and  me 
together — something  very  pretty  indeed,  papa,  for  she  waa 
very  kind  to  me,  and  I  would  not  have  her  fancy  that  one 
forgets.  Mr.  Leslie  says  in  a  letter  that  he  will  see  to  the 
ponies  and  dogs  being  sent  off,  so  that  you  need  have  no 
trouble  ;  he  is  at  the  Station  Hotel,  as  probably  you  know, 
if  you  wish  to  call  and  thank  him.  I  remem))er  Duncan 
saying  that  when  the  dogs  were  going  he  would  take  tlieni 
over  the  hills  to  Kingussie,  and  go  with  them  by  the  train 
as  far  as  Pertli,  where  he  has  relatives,  and  there  he  could 
see  that  the  dogs  had  water  given  them  in  the  morning. 
But  you  will  yourselves  take  them,  perhaj^s,  from  Inver- 
ness ?  Another  small  matter,  dear  papa,  if  you  do  not 
mind  the  trouble,  is  this — would  you  ask  some  one  to  pack 
up  for  me  and  send  here  tlie  boards  and  drying-paper  and 
hand-press  that  I  had  for  the  wild  flowers  ?  We  go  much 
into  the  country  here,  and  have  plenty  of  time  in  the  even- 
ing ;  and  my  mother  is  so  much  interested  in  any  pursuit 
of  mine  that  this  would  be  an  additional  means  of  amusing 
her.  You  do  not  say  whether  you  have  heard  anything 
farther  of  Mr.  Melville. 

"Do  not  think  I  am  sad,  or  alone,  or  repining,  Oh  no;  I 
am  very  well ;  and  I  am  very  happy  when  I  see  my  mother 
pleased  with  me.  "We  do  a  hundred  things — examine  the 
shop  windows,  walk  on  the  pier  or  along  the  promenade, 
or  we  drive  to  different  places  in  the  country,  and  some- 
times we  have  lunch  at  the  old-fashioned  inns,  and  make 
the  acquaintance  of  the  people — so  good-natured  they  are, 
and  well  pleased  with  their  own  importance  ;  but  I  do  not 
understand  them  always,  and  my  mother  laughs.  We  call 
the  pony  Bertrand  du  Guesclin  ;  I  do  not  remember  how  it 
happened ;  but,  at  all  events,  he  is  not  as  adventurous  as 
the  Connetable :  he  is  too  wise  to  run  any  risks.  But  when 
lam  quite  sure,  and  if  my  mother  is  well  enough  for  the 
fatigue  of  the  voyage,  I  think  I  will  take  her  to  the  south 
of  France,  and  then  along  the  Rivera,  for  I  fear  the  winter 
here,  and  she  so  delicate.  Dear  papa,  you  say  I  am  not  to 
mind  the  expense  ;  very  well,  you  see  I  am  profiting  by  your 
mands.  In  the  meantime  I  woula  not  dare.  I  try  to  keep 
<iown  my  excitement ;  we  amuse  ourselves  with  the  shops 
with  the  driving,  and  what  not ;  it  is  all  simple,  pleasant^ 


348  YOLANDE. 

and  I  wait  for  the  return  of  her  strength.  Yes,  I  can  see 
she  is  much  depressed  sometimes;  and  then  it  is  that  she 
has  been  accustomed  to  fly  for  relief  to  the  medicines ;  but 
now  I  think  that  is  over,  and  the  best  to  be  looked  forward 
to.  Yes,  in  spite  of  caution,  in  spite  of  reason,  I  am  already 
almost  assured.  There  is  something  in  her  manner  toward 
me  that  convinces  me ;  there  is  a  sympathy  which  has 
grown  up  ;  she  looks  at  me  as  she  does  not  look  at  any  one 
else,  and  I  understand.     It  is  this  that  convinces  me. 

"  Will  you  give  a  farewell  gift  to  each  of  the  servants, 
besides  their  wages  ?  I  think  they  deserve  it ;  always  they 
helped  me  greatly,  and  were  so  willing  and  obliging,  in- 
stead of  taking  advantage  of  my  ignorance.  I  would  not 
have  them  think  that  I  did  not  recognize  it,  and  was  un- 
grateful. And  please^  papa,  get  something  very  pretty  for 
Mrs.  Bell.  I  do  not  know  what :  something  she  could  be 
proud  to  show  to  Mr.  Melville  would  probably  please  her 
best.     Write  to  me  when  you  get  to  Dalescourt. 

"  Your  affectionate  daughter,  Yolande." 

There  is  no  doubt  that  Yolande  made  these  repeated 
references  to  Mr.  Melville  with  the  vague  expectation  of 
learning  that  perhaps  he  had  returned  to  Gress.  But  if 
that  was  her  impression  she  was  speedily  undeceived.  The 
very  next  morning,  as  she  went  down  into  the  small  lobby, 
she  saw  something  white  in  the  letter-box  of  the  door.  The 
bell  had  not  been  rung,  so  that  the  servant-maid  had  not 
taken  the  letter  out.  Yolande  did  so,  and  saw  that  it  was 
addressed  to  herself — in  a  handwriting  that  she  instantly 
recognized.  With  trembling  fingers  she  hastily  broke  open 
the  envelope,  and  then  read  these  words,  written  in  pencil 
across  a  sheet  of  note-paper  : 

"You  have  done  well.  You  will  succeed.  But  be 
patient.     Good-by.  J.  M." 

She  stood  still — bewildered — her  heart  beating  quickly. 
Had  he  been  there  all  the  time,  then  ? — always  near  her, 
watching  her,  guarding  her,  observing  the  progress  of  the 
experiment  he  had  himself  suggested?  And  now  whither 
had  he  gone — without  a  word  of  thanks  and  gratitude  ?  Her 
mother  was  coming  down  the  stairs.  She  quickly  concealed 
the  letter,  and  turned  to  meet  her.  In  the  dusk  of  this 
lobby  the  mother  observed  nothing  strange  or  unusual  in 
the  look  of  her  daughter's  face. 


YOLANDE,  840 

CHAPTER  XLII. 

A  LAST   INTERVENTION. 

It  has  already  been  said  of  Mrs.  Graham,  as  of  her 
brother,  that  she  was  not  altogether  mercenary.  She  Lad 
a  certain  share  of  sentiment  in  her  composition.  It  is  true, 
she  had  summarily  stamped  out  the  Master's  boyish  fancies 
with  regard  to  Janet  Stewart ;  but  then,  on  the  other  hand 
(when  the  danger  to  the  estates  of  Lynn  was  warded  off), 
she  could  afford  to  cherish  those  verses  to  Shena  Van  with 
a  sneaking  fondness.  Nay,  more  than  that,  she  paid  them 
the  compliment  of  imitation — unknown  to  her  husband  and 
everybody  else ;  and  it  may  be  worth  while  to  print  this, 
her  sole  and  only  literary  eff'ort,  if  only  to  show  that,  just 
as  seamstresses  imagine  the  highest  social  circles  to  be  the 
realm  of  true  romance,  and  like  to  be  told  of  the  woes  and 
joys  of  high-born  ladies,  so  tliis  pretty  Mrs.  Graham,  being 
the  only  daughter  of  a  nobleman,  when  casting  about  for  a 
properly  sentimental  situation,  must  needs  get  right  down 
to  the  bottom  of  the  social  ladder,  and  think  it  fine  to  speak 
of  herself  as  a  sailor's  lass.  One  small  touch  of  reality  re- 
mained— the  hero  she  named  Jim.  But  here  are  the  versec 
to  speak  for  themselves  : 

"  I  care  not  a  fig  for  your  brag,  you  girls 

And  dames  of  high  degree, 
Or  for  all  your  silks  and  satins  and  pearls, 

As  fine  as  tine  may  be  ; 
For  I'll  be  as  rich  as  dukes  and  eai'ls 

When  my  Jim  comes  home  from  sea. 

**  It's  in  Portsmouth  town  that  I  know  a  lane, 

And  a  small  house  jolly  and  free, 
That's  sheltered  well  from  the  wind  and  the  rain, 
And  as  snug  as  snug  can  be  ; 
And  it's  there  that  we'll  be  sitting  again 
When  my  Jim  comes  home  from  sea. 

**  Twas  a  fine  brave  sight  when  the  yards  were 
manned, 
Though  my  eyes  could  scarcely  see  ; 
It's  a  long,  long  sail  to  the  Rio  Grand,* 
And  a  long,  long  waiting  for  me  ; 
But  I'll  envy  not  any  one  in  the  land 
When  my  Jim  comes  home  from  sea. 


S50  YOLANDE. 

"  So  here's  to  your  health,  you  high -bom  girls 
And  ladies  of  great  degree, 
And  I  hope  you'll  all  be  married  to  earls 

As  proud  as  proud  may  be ; 
But  I  wouldn't  give  fourpence  for  all  your  pearls 
When  my  Jim  comes  home  from  sea.'* 

Of  course  she  carefully  concealed  these  verses — especially 
from  her  husband,  who  would  have  led  her  a  sad  life  if  ho 
had  found  them  and  discovered  the  authorskip ;  and  they 
never  attained  to  the  ditrnity  of  type  in  the  Inverness  Cour- 
ier., wliere  the  lines  to  Shena  Van  had  appeared  ;  but  all  the 
same,  pretty  Mrs.  Graham  regarded  them  with  a  certain 
pleasure,  and  rather  approved  of  the  independence  of  the 
r*ortsraouth  young  lady,  although  she  had  a  vague  impres- 
sion that  she  might  not  be  quite  the  proper  sort  of  guest  to 
ask  to  Inverstory. 

Now  he  ranger  and  dismay  over  the  possible  breaking 
down  of  the  scheme  which  she  had  so  carefully  formed  and 
tended  were  due  to  various  causes,  and  did  not  simply  arise 
from  a  wish  that  the  Master  of  Lynn  should  marry  a  rich 
wife.  It  was  her  project,  for  one  thing,  and  she  had  a  cer- 
tain sentimental  fondness  in  regarding  it.  Had  she  not 
wrought  for  it,  too,  and  striven  for  it  ?  Was  it  for  nothing 
thatslie  liad  trudged  through  the  dust  of  the  Merhadj  bazaars, 
ind  fought  with  cockroaches  in  her  cabin,  and  grasped  with 
the  Egyptian  heat  all  those  sweltering  afternoons?  She  be- 
gan to  consider  herself  illtreated,  and  did  not  know  which 
to  complain  of  the  more — her  brother's  indifference  or  her 
father's  obstinacy.  Then  she  could  get  no  sort  of  sympathy 
from  her  husband.  He  only  lauglied,  and  went  away  to  look 
after  his  pheasants.  Moreover,  she  knew  very  well  .that 
tliis  present  condition  of  affairs  could  not  last.  The  Master's 
illtemper  would  increase  ratlier  than  abate.  Yolande  would 
u;io\v  a^.rustomed  to  his  "neglect  of  her.  Perhaps  Mr.  Winter- 
]K)unie  would  interfere,  and  finally  put  an  end  to  that  pretty 
dream  she  had  dreamed  about  as  they  went  sailing  down  the 
Mediterranean. 

Accordingly  she  determined  to  make  one  more  effort. 
If  slie  should  not  be  able  to  coax  Lord  Lynn  into  a  more 
complaisant  frame  of  mind,  at  least  she  should  go  on  to  Allt- 
nam-Ba  and  make  matters  as  pleasant  as  possible  with  Mr. 
Winterbourne  before  he  left.  The  former  part  of  her  en- 
deavor, indeed,  she  speedily  found  to  be  hopeless.  She  had 
no  sooner  arrived  at  the  Towers  than  she  sought  out  her  fa- 


YOLANDR.  361 

ther  and  begged  him  to  be  less  obdurate ;  but  when,  as  she  was 
putting  forward  Corrievreak  as  her  chief  argument,  she  was 
nret  by  her  father  s  affixing  to  Corrievreak,  or  rather  prefix- 
ing to  it,  a  solitary  and  emphatic  word — a  word  that  was  en- 
tirely out  of  place,  too,  as  applied  to  a  sanctuary — she  knew  it 
was  all  over.  Lord  Lynn  sometimes  used  violent  language, 
for  he  was  a  hot-tempered  man,  but  not  language  of  that 
sort;  and  when  she  heard  him  utter  that  dreadful  wish 
about  such  a  sacred  thing  as  the  sanctuary  of  a  deer  forest, 
slie  felt  it  was  needless  to  continue  farther. 

"  Very  well  papa,"  said  she,  "  I  have  done  my  best.  It 
is  not  my  affair.  Only  everything  might  have  been  made 
so  pleasant  for  us  all." 

"  Yes,  and  for  the  Slagpool  Radicals,"  her  father  said, 
contemptuously.  "  I  suppose  they  would  land  at  Foyers 
with  banners,  and  have  picnics  in  the  forest." 

"  At  all  events,  you  must  remember  this,  papa,"  said  Mrs. 
Graham,  with  some  sharpness,  ''  that  Archie  is  a  gentleman. 
lie  is  pledged  to  marry  Miss  Winterbourne,  and  marry  her 
be  will." 

'*  Let  him,  and  welcome  !  "  said  this  short,  stout,  thick 
person  with  the  bushy  eyebrows  and  angry  eyes.  "  He  may 
marry  the  dairy-maid  if  he  likes.  I  suppose  the  young  gen- 
tleman has  a  right  to  his  own  tastes.  But  I  say  he  shall 
not  bring  his  low  acquaintances  about  this  house  while  I  am 
alive." 

Mrs.  Graham  herself  had  a  touch  of  a  family  temper,  and 
for  a  second  or  two  her  face  turned  quite  pale  with  anger, 
and  when  she  spoke  it  was  in  a  kind  of  forced  and  breath- 
less way. 

"  I  don't  know  what  you  mean.  Who  are  low  acquain- 
tances? Yolande  Winterbourne  is  my  friend.  She  is  tit 
l.;>  marry  any  one  in  the  land,  I  care  not  what  his  rank  is, 
nud — and  I  will  not  have  such  things  said.  She  is  my  friend. 
Low  acquaintances  !  If  it  comes  to  that,  it  was  I  who  in- 
troduced Archie  to  Mr.  Winterbourne ;  and — and  tliis  is 
what  I  know  about  them,  that  if  they  are  not  fit  to — to  be  re- 
ceived at  Lynn,  then  neither  am  I." 

And  with  that  she  walked  calmly  (but  still  with  her  face 
rather  pale)  out  of  the  room,  and  shut  the  door  behind  her  ; 
and  then  went  away  and  sought  out  her  own  dressing-room 
of  former  days,  and  locked  herself  in  there  and  had  a  good 
cry.  She  did  feel  injured.  She  was  doing  her  best,  and 
this  v;as  what  she  got  for  it.     But    she   was  a  courai4eou>< 


352  YOLANDE. 

little  woman,  and  presently  she  had  dried  her  eyes  and  ar- 
ranged her  dress  for  going  out ;  then  she  rang,  and  sent  a 
message  to  the  stables  to  get  the  dog-cart  ready,  for  that 
she  wanted  to  drive  to  Allt-nam-Ba. 

By-and-by  she  was  driving  along  by  the  side  of  the  pret- 
ty loch  under  the  great  hills ;  and  she  was  comforting  her- 
self with  more  cheerful  reflections. 

"  It  is  no  matter,"  she  was  saying  to  herself.  "  If  only 
Mr.  Winterbourne  remains  in  good  humor,  everything  will 
go  right.  When  Archie  is  married  he  will  be  rich  enough 
to  have  a  home  where  he  pleases.  I  suppose  Jim  wouldn't 
have  them  always  with  us  ? — though  it  would  be  nice  to 
have  Yolande  in  the  house,  especially  in  the  long  winter 
months.  But  x\rchie  could  build  a  house  for  himself,  and 
sell  it  when  he  no  longer  wanted  it.  The  country  about 
Loch  Eil  would  please  Yolande.  I  wonder  if  Archie  could 
get  a  piece  of  land  anywhere  near  Fassiefern  ?  That  would 
be  handy  for  having  a  yacht,  too,  and  of  course  they  will 
have  a  yacht.  Or  why  shouldn't  he  merely  rent  a  house — 
one  of  those  up  Glen  Urquhart,  if  only  the  shooting  was 
a  little  better  ?  or  over  Glen  Spean  way,  if  Lochaber  isn't 
a  little  too  wild  for  Yolande  ?  or  perhaps  they  might  get 
a  place  in  Glengarry,  for  Yolande  is  so  fond  of  wandering 
through  woods.  No  doubt  Archie  exaggerated  that  affair 
about  Yolande's  mother ;  in  any  case  it  could  easily  be  ar- 
ranged ;  other  families  have  done  so,  and  everything  gone 
on  as  usual.  Then  if  they  had  a  town  house  we  might  all 
go  to  the  Caledonian  Ball  together.  Archie  looks  so  well 
in  the  kilt,  and  Yolande  might  go  as  Flora  Macdonald." 

She  drove  quickly  along  the  loch-side,  but  moderated 
her  pace  when  she  reached  the  rough  mountain-road  lead- 
ing up  the  glen,  for  she  knew  she  would  not  mend  matters 
by  letting  down  one  of  her  father's  horses.  And  as  she 
approached  Allt-nam-Ba  a  chill  struck  her  heart — those  pre- 
parations for  departure  were  so  ominous.  Duncan  w^s  in 
front  of  the  body,  giving  the  rifles  and  guns  their  last  rub 
with  oil  before  putting  them  into  the  case  ;  boxes  of  empty 
Boda-water  bottles  had  been  hauled  out  by  the  women-folk 
for  the  men  to  screw  up  ;  a  cart  with  its  shafts  resting  on 
the  ground  stood  outside  the  coach-house  ;  and  various  fig- 
ures went  hurrying  this  way  and  that.  And  no  sooner  had 
Mrs.  Graham  driven  up  and  got  down  from  the  dog-cart 
than  her  quick  eye  espied  a  tall  black-bearded  man,  who, 
from  natural  shyness — or  perhaps  he  wan  Led  to  have  a  look 


YGLANDE.  853 

at  Duncan's  gun-rack — had  retreated  into  the  bothy  ;  and 
so,  instead  of  going  into  the  liouse,  she  quickly  followed 
him  into  the  wide,  low-roofed  apartment,  which  Bmelled 
considerably  of  tobacco  smoke. 

"  Isn't  your  name  Angus?  "  said  she. 

"Yes,  ma'am,"  said  he,  with  a  very  large  smile  that 
showed  he  recognized  her. 

"  I  suppose  Sir.  Macpherson  has«.sent  you  about  the  in- 
ventory ?  " 

"  Yes,  ma'am." 

"  Have  you  been  over  the  house  yet  ?  " 

"No,  ma'am;  I  have  just  come  out  with  the  empty  cart 
from,  Inverfariguig." 

"  Well,  then,  Angus,  you  need  not  go  over  the  house. 
I  don't  want  the  gentlemen  bothered.  Go  back  and  tell 
Mr.  Macpherson  I  said  so." 

"  There  was  £7  of  breakages  with  the  last  tenant,  ma'- 
am," said  he,  very  respectfully. 

"  Never  mind,"  said  she  ;  and  she  took  out  her  purse 
and  got  hold  of  a  sovereign.  "  Go  back  at  once ;  and  if 
you  have  to  sleep  at  Whitebridge  that  will  pay  the  cost; 
or  you  may  get  a  lift  in  the  mail  cart.  My  brother  is  in  In- 
verness, isn't  he  ?  " 

"  Yes,  ma'am." 

"  Then  you  can  go  to  him,  and  tell  him  I  said  there  was 
to  be  no  going  over  the  inventory.  This  tenant  is  a  friend 
of  mine.  You  go  to  my  brother  when  you  get  to  Inverness, 
and  'he  will  explain  to  Mr.  Macpherson.  Now  good-by, 
Angus ;  "  and  she  shook  hands  with  him,  as  is  the  custom 
in  that  part  of  the  country,  and  went. 

The  arrival  a  stranger  at  Allt-nam-Ba  was  such  an  un- 
ual  circumstance  that  when  she  went  up  to  door  of  the  lodge 
she  found  both  Mr.  Winterbourne  and  John  Shorthands 
awaiting  her,  they  having  seen  her  drive  up  the  glen;  and 
she  explained  that  she  had  been  leaving  a  message  with 
one  of  the  men. 

"  I  heard  you  were  leaving,  Mr.  Winterbourne,"  said 
she,  with  one  of  her  most  charming  smiles,  when  they  had 
got  into  the  drawing  room,  "  and  I  could  not  let  you  go 
away  without  coming  to  say  good-by.  Both  my  husband 
and  I, expected  to  have  seen  much  more  of  you  this  au- 
tumn ;  but  you  can  see  for  yourself  what  it  is  in  the  High- 
lands— everv  household  is  so  wrapped  up  in  its  own  affairs 
that  there  is  scarcely  any  tine  for  visiting.    If  Inverstroy 


864  YOLANDE. 

had  come  to  Allt-nam-Ba,  Inverstroy  would  have  found  Allt- 
nam-Ba  away  shooting  on  the  hill,  and  vice  versa!  and  I 
suppose  tliat  is  why  old-fashioned  people  like  my  fatlier 
have  almost  given  up  the  tradition  of  visiting.  When  do 
you  go  ?  " 

"  Well,  if  we  are  all  packed  and  ready,  I  su])pose  this 
afternoon  ;  then  we  can  pass  the  night  at  Foyers,  and  go  on 
to  Inverness  in  the  mot-ning." 

"But  if  I  had  known  I  could  have  brought  some  of  the 
])eople  from  the  Towers  to  help  you.  iMy  father  would 
liave  been  delighted." 

"  She  said  it  without  a  blush  ;  perhaps  it  was  only  a 
slip  of  the  tongue. 

"  Do  you  think  Mrs.  Bell  would  suffer  any  interference  ?  " 
said  John  Shortlands,  with  a  laugh.  *'  I  can  tell  you,  my 
dear  Mrs.  Graham,  that  she  rules  us  with  a  rod  of  iron — 
though  we're  not  supposed  to  know  it." 

"And  how  is  dear  Yolande?  "  said  Mrs.  Graham. 

"  She  is  very  well,"  Yolande's  father  said,  instantly 
lowering  his  eyes,  and  becoming  nervous  and  fidgety. 

"  I  heard  something  of  what  had  called  her  away  to 
the  south — at  least  I  presumed  that  was  the  reason,"  con- 
tinued Mrs.  Graham,  forcing  herself  to  attack  this  danger- 
ous topic  in  order  to  show  that,  iri  her  estimation  at  least 
nothing  too  important  had  occurred.  "  Of  course  one  sym- 
pathizes with  her.  I  hope  you  have  had  good  news  from 
her?" 

"  Oh  yes,"  said  he  hastily.  "  Oh  yes.  I  had  a  letter 
last  night.     Yolande  is  very  well." 

"Archie,"  continued  Mrs.  Graham,  thinking  enough  had 
been  said  on  that  point,  "  is  at  Inverness.  I  declare  the 
way  those  lawyers  fight  over  trifles  is  perfectly  absurd. 
And  I  confess,"  she  added,  with  a  demure  smile,  "  that  the 
owners  of  deer  forests  are  not  much  better.  Of  course  they 
always  tell  me  I  don't  know,  that  it  is  my  ignorance ;  but 
to  find  people  quarrelling  about  the  line  the  march  should 
take — when  an  acre  of  the  ground  wouldn't  give  grazin 
for  a  sheep — seems  stupid  enough.  Well,  now,  Mr.  Win 
terbourne,  may  I  venture  to  ask  how  you  found  the  shoot- 
ing?" 

"  Oh,  excellent — excellent,'*  said  he,  brightly,  for  Jie  also 
was  glad  to  get  away  from  that  other  topic.  "  We  have 
not  found  as  many  deer  coming  about  as  we  expected;  but 


o 


YOLANDE.  865 

otherwise  the  place  has  turned  out  everything  that  could  be 
wished." 

''  I  am  glad  of  that,"  said  she,  "  for  I  know  Archie  had 
qualms  about  inducing  you  to  take  the  shooting.  I  remem- 
ber very  well,  on  board  ship,  he  used  to  think  it  was  a  risky 
thinsz.  Supposing  the  place  had  not  turned  out  well,  then 
you  might  have  felt  that — that — " 

"  No,  no,  my  dear  Mrs.  Graham,"  said  he,  with  a  smile, 
"  caveat  emptor.  I  knew  I  was  taking  the  place  with  the 
usual  attending  risks  ;  I  should  not  have  blamed  your  bro- 
ther if  we  had  had  a  bad  year." 

She  was  just  on  the  point  of  asking  him  whether  he 
liked  Alt-nam-Ba  well  enough  to  come  back  again,  but  she 
thought  it  was  too  dangerous.  She  had  no  means  of  know- 
ing what  he  thought  of  Lord  Lynn's  marked  unneighbor- 
liness ;  and  she  deemed  it  more  prudent  to  go  on  talking  of 
general  subjects,  in  her  light  and  cheerful  way,  and  always 
on  the  assumption  that  two  families  were  on  fi-iendly  terms, 
and  that  Yolande's  future  home  would  be  in  the  Highlands. 
At  length  she  said  must  be  going. 

"  I  would  ask  you  to  stay  to  lunch,"  said  Mr.  Winter- 
bourne,  "but  I  dare  say  you  know  what  lunch  is  likely  to  be 
on  the  day  of  leaving  a  shooting-box — " 

"  Dear  me  !  "  said  she,  in  tones  of  vexation. 
"  Why  did  they  not  think  of  that  at  the  Towers  ?     They 
might  have    saved  you  a  great  deal  of   bother  that  way ; 
but  they  have   got  into  an  old  fashioned  groove    there." 

"  At  the  same  time,  my  dear  Mrs.  Graham,"  said  Mr. 
Winterbourne,  with  great  courtesy,  "  if  you  like  to  take  the 
risk,  I  dare  say  Mrs.  Bell  can  find  you  something ;  and  we 
have  not  often  the  chance  of  entertaining  any  one  at  AUt- 
nam-Ba.  Will  you  take  pity  on  us  ?  Will  you  sit  in  Yo- 
lande's place  ?  The  house  has  been  rather  empty  since  she 
left." 

"  I  should  like  it  of  all  things,"  said  pretty  Mrs.  Graham, 
taking  off  her  hat  and  gloves  and  putting  them  on  the  sofa, 
*'  for  I  feel  that  I  haven't  given  you  half  the  messages  I 
wish  you  to  take  to  dear  Yolande,  And  you  must  let  me 
have  her  address,  so  that  Jim  can  send  her  a  haunch  of 
venison  at  Christmas." 

"  I  am  afraid  that  would  not  he  of  much  use,  thank  you," 
said  he ;  "  for  I  hope  by  that  time,  if  all  goes  well,  that  Yo- 
lande will  be  away  in  the  south  of  Europe." 

**  Archie  is  going  south  also,"  said  Mrs.  Graham  pleaa- 


856  YOLANDE. 

antly.  "  There  is  little  doing  here  in  the  winter.  After  he 
has  made  all  the  arrangements  with  papa's  agents  in  Inver- 
ness, then  he  will  be  off  to  the  south  too.  Where  is  Yo- 
lande  likely  to  be  ?  " 

"  Well  I  don't  exactly  know,"  said  Mr.  Winterbourne, 
with  a  kind  of  anxious  evasion.  "But  she  will  write  to 
you.  Oh  yes,  I  will  tell  her  to  write  to  you.  She  is — slie 
is  much  occupied  at  present — and — and  perhaps  she  has  not 
much  time.     But  Yolande  does  not  forget  her  friends." 

"  She  shall  not  forget  me  for  I  won't  let  her,"  said  Mrs. 
Graham,  blithely.  "  If  she  should  try,  I  will  come  and  fer- 
ret her  out,  and  give  her  a  proper  scolding.  But  I  don't 
think  it  will  be  needed." 

The  luncheon,  frugal  as  it  was,  proved  to  be  a  very  pleas- 
ant affair,  for  the  two  men-folk  were  glad  to  have  the  table 
brightened  by  the  unusual  presence  of  a  lady  guest,  who  was, 
moreover,  very  pretty  and  talkative  and  cheerful ;  while  on 
the  other  hand,  Mrs.  Graham,  having  all  her  wits  about  her, 
very  speedily  assured  herself  that  Yolande's  father  was 
leaving  Allt-nam-Ba  in  no  dudgeon  whatever ;  and  also  that, 
although  he  seemed  to  consider  Yolande  as  at  present  set 
apart  for  some  special  duty,  and  not  to  be  interfered  with 
by  any  suggestions  of  future  meetings  or  arrangements,  he 
appeared  to  take  it  for  granted  that  ultimately  she  would 
live  in  the  Highlands.  Mrs.  Graham  convinced  herself  that 
all  was  well,  and  she  was  a  skilful  flatterer,  and  could  use 
her  eyes  ;  and  altogether  this  was  a  very  merry  and  agree- 
able luncheon  party.  Before  she  finally  rose  to  go  she  had 
got  Yolande's  address,  and  had  undertaken  to  write  to  her. 
And  then  she  pleased  Mr.  Winterbourne  very  much  by 
asking  to  see  Mrs.  Bell ;  and  she  equally  pleased  Mrs.  Bell 
by  some  cleverly  turned  compliments,  and  by  repeating 
what  the  gentlemen  had  said  about  their  obligations  to  her. 
In  good  truth  Mrs.  Bell  needed  some  such  comfort.  She 
was  sadly  broken  down.  When  Mrs.  Grahaoi  asked  her 
about  Mr.  Melville,  tears  rose  unbidden  to  the  old  dame's 
eyes,  and  she  had  furtively  to  wipe  them  away  with  her 
hand^ierchief  while  pretending  to  look  out  of  the  window. 

"  He  has  written  two  or  three  times  to  the  young  lad 
Dalrymple,"  said  she,  with  just  one  suppressed  sob;  "  and 
all  about  they  brats  o'  bairns,  as  if  he  wasna  in  mair  con- 
sideration in  people's  minds  than  a  wheen  useless  lads  and 
lassies.  And  only  a  message  or  two  to  me,  about  this 
family  or  the  other  family — the  deil  take  them,  that  h© 


YOLANDE.  357 

should  bother  his  head  about  their  crofts  and  their  cows 
and  their  seed-corn  !  And  just  as  he  might  be  having  his 
ain  back  again — ^to  gang  awa'  like  that,  without  a  word  o* 
.an  address.  I  jalouse  it's  America — ay,  I'm  thinking  it's 
America,  for  there  they  have  the  electric  things  he  was  aye 
speaking  o' ;  and  he  was  a  curious  man,  that  wanted  to  ken 
everything.  I  wonder  what  the  Almichty  was  about  when 
He  put  it  into  people's  heads  to  get  fire  out  o'  running 
water !  They  miglit  hae  been  content  as  they  were ;  and 
Mr.  Melville  would  hae  been  better  occupit  in  planting  his 
ain  hill-sides — as  a'  the  lairds  are  doing  nowadays — than  in 
running  frae  ae  American  town  to  anither  wi'  his  boxes  o* 
steel  springs  and  things." 

"  But  he  is  sure  to  write  to  you,  Mrs.  Bell,"  said  Mrs. 
Graham. 

"  I  just  canna  bear  to  think  o't,"  said  the  older  W6<nan, 
in  a  kind  of  despair.  "  I  hope  he  didna  leave  because  he 
thought  I  would  be  an  encumbrance  on  him.  I  hae  mair 
sense  than  that.  But  he's  a  proud  man,  though  I  shouldna 
say  it —  Ay,  and  the  poor  lad  without  a  home — and  with- 
out the  land  that  belongs  to  him — " 

The  good  old  lady  found  this  topic  too  much  for  her, 
and  she  was  retiring  wnth  an  old-fashioned  courtesy,  when 
Mrs.  Graham  shook  hands  with  her  in  the  most  friendly 
manner;  and  assured  her  that  if  any  tidings  of  Mr.  Melville 
came  to  Inverstroy  (as  was  almost  certain),  she  would 
write  at  once. 


CHAPTER  XLin. 

LOOSENED    CHAIN'S. 


"  Tom  have  done  well — t/ou  will  succeed."  Tolande  read 
and  again  read  that  brief  note ;  pondering  over  it  in  secret, 
and  always  with  an  increasing  joy.  He  had  seen  ;  he  had 
approved.  And  now,  when  she  was  walking  about  the 
streets  of  Worthing  with  her  mother,  she  found  a  strange 
interest  in  guessing  as  to  which  of  those  houses  he  had  lived 
in  while,  as  she  assured  herself,  he  was  keeping  that  invisible 
guard  over  her.     Was  it  this  one,  or  that ;  or  perhaps  tho 


858  YOLANDE. 

hotel  at  the  corner?  Had  he  been  standing  at  the  window 
there,  and  regarding  her  as  she  passed  unconscious  ?  Had  he 
seen  her  drive  by  in  the  little  pony-carriage  ?  Had  he  watched 
her  go  along  the  ]^ier,  himself  standing  somewhere  out 
of  the  way  ?  Slie  had  no  longer  any  doubt  that  it  was  he  who 
had  gone  to  the  office  of  Lawrence  Lang  on  the  morning  of 
her  arrival  in  London  ;  she  was  certain  he  must  have  been 
close  by  when  she  went  to  fetch  her  mother  on  that  fateful 
evening. 

And  indeed,  as  time  went  on,  it  became  more  and  more 
certain  that  that  forgetfulness  to  which  she  had  looked  for- 
ward was  still  far  from  her ;  and  now  she  began  to  regard 
with  a  kind  of  dismay  the  prospect  of  the  Master  of  Lynn 
coming  to  claim  her.  She  knew  it  was  her  duty  to  become 
his  wife — that  had  been  arranged  and  approved  by  her  fa- 
ther ;  she  had  herself  pledged  away  her  future  ;  and  she  had 
no  right  of  appeal.  She  reminded  herself  of  these  facts  a 
hundred  times,  and  argued  with  herself;  slie  strove  to 
banish  those  imaginings  about  one  who  ought  henceforth  to 
be  as  one  dead  to  her;  and  strove  also  to  prove  to  herself 
that  if  she  did  what  was  right,  unhappiness  could  not  be 
the  result ;  but  all  the  time  there  was  growing  up  in  her 
heart  a  fear — nay,  almost  a  conviction — that  tliis  marriage 
was  not  possible.  She  turned  away  her  eyes  and  would 
not  regard  it;  but  tliis  conviction  pressed  itself  in  .on  her 
whether  she  would  or  no.  And  then  she  would  engage 
herself  with  a  desperate  assiduity  in  the  trivial  details  of 
their  daily  life  there,  and  try  to  gain  foi-getfulness  that 
way. 

This  was  the  letter  she  wrote  to  the  Master  of  Lynn,  in 
reply  to  his.  It  cost  her  some  trouble,  and  also  here  and 
there  some  qualm  of  self-reproach ;  for  she  could  not  but 
know  that  she  was  not  telling  the  whole  truth  ; 

'•  WoKTHiNG,  Wednesday  afternoon, 
"  Dear  Archie, — I  am  exceedingly  grieved  to  hear  of 
your  trouble  with  your  family,  and  also  to  think  that  I  am 
the  cause  of  it.  It  seems  so  great  a  pity,  and  all  the  more 
that,  in  the  present  circumstances,  it  is  so  unnecessary.  You 
will  understand  from  my  papa's  letter  that  the  duty  I  have 
undertaken  is  surely  before  any  other ;  and  that  one's  per- 
sonal wishes  must  be  put  aside,  when  it  is  a  question  of  what 
a  daughter  owes  to  her  mother.  And  to  think  there  should 
be  trouble  and  dissension  now  over  what  must  in  any  oast 


YOLANDE.  S50 

be  80  remote — that  seems  a  very  painful  and  unnecessary- 
thing  ;  and  surely,  dear  Archie,  you  can  can  do  something 
to  restore  yourself  to  your  ordinary  position  with  regard  to 
your  family.  Do  you  think  it  is  pleasant  to  me  to  think 
that  I  am  the  cause  of  a  quarrel?  And  to  think  also  that 
tliis  quarrel  might  be  continued  in  the  future  ?  But  the  fu- 
ture is  so  uncertain  now  in  these  new  circumstances  that  I 
would  pray  you  not  to  think  of  it,  but  to  leave  it  aside,  and 
become  good  friends  with  your  family.  And  how,  you 
may  ask  ?  Well,  I  would  consider  our  engagement  at  an 
end  for  the  present ;  let  it  be  as  nothing  ;  you  will  go  back 
to  Lynn ;  I  am  here,  in  the  position  that  I  can  not  go 
from  ;  let  the  future  have  what  it  may  in  store,  it  will  be 
time  to  consider  afterwards.  Pray  believe  me,  dear  Ai'chie, 
it  is  not  in  anger  that  I  write,  or  any  resentment ;  for  I  un- 
derstand well  that  my  papa's  politics  are  not  agreeable  to 
every  one ;  and  1  have  heard  of  differences  in  families  on 
smaller  matters  than  that.  And  I  pray  you  to  believe  tliat 
neither  my  father  nor  myself  was  sensible  of  any  discourtesy 
— no,  surely  every  one  has  the  right  to  choose  his  friends  as 
he  pleases  ;  nor  could  one  expect  one's  neighbors  to  alter 
their  habits  of  living,  perhaps,  and  be  at  the  trouble  of  en- 
tertaining strangers.  No,  there  is  neither  resentment  nor 
anger  in  my  mind  ;  but  only  a  wish  that  you  should  be  re- 
conciled to  your  friends ;  and  this  is  an  easy  way.  It  would 
leave  you  and  me  free  for  the  time  thatmiglit  be  necesary; 
you  can  go  back  to  Lynn,  where  your  proper  place  is ;  and 
I  can  give  myself  up  to  my  mother,  without  other  thoughts. 
Will  you  ask  Mrs.  Graham  if  that  is  not  the  wisest  plan  ? — 
I  am  sure  she  must  be  distressed  at  the  thought  of  your  be- 
ing estranged  from  your  relatives;  and  I  know  she  will 
think  it  a  pity  to  have  so  much  trouble  about  what  must  in 
any  case  be  so  distant.  For,  to  tell  you  the  truth,  dear 
Archie,  I  can  not  leave  to  any  one  else  what  I  have  now  un- 
dertaken ;  and  it  may  be  years  of  attention  and  service  that 
are  wanted ;  and  why  should  you  wait  and  wait,  and  always 
with  the  constraint  of  a  family  quarrel  around  you  ?  For 
myself,  I  already  look  at  my  position  that  way.  I  have 
put  aside  my  engagement  ring.  I  have  given  myself  over 
to  the  one  who  has  most  claims  on  me ;  and  I  am  proud  to 
think  that  I  may  have  been  of  a  little  service  already.  Will 
you  consent,  dear  Archie?  Then  we  shall  both  be  free  ;  and 
the  future  must  be  left  to  itself. 

"  It  was  so  very  kind  of  you  to  look  after  the  sending 


860  YOLANDE, 

away  of  the  dogs  and  ponies  from  AUt-nara-Ba  I  my  papa 
has  written  to  me  from  Dalescroft  about  it ;  and  was  very 
grateful  to  you.  No,  I  will  not  tell  him  anything  of  what 
is  in  your  letter  ;  for  it  is  not  necessary  it  should  be  known 
— especially  as  I  hope  you  will  at  once  take  steps  for  a  re- 
conciliation and  think  no  more  of  it.  And  it  was  very  good 
of  your  sister  to  go  out  and  pay  them  a  visit  at  Allt-nara-Ba. 
I  have  had  a  letter  from  her  also — as  kind  as  she  always  is 
— asking  me  to  go  to  Inverstroy  at  Christmas  ;  but  you  will 
understand  from  what  I  have  said  that  this  is  impossible, 
nor  can  I  make  any  engagement  with  any  one  now,  nor 
have  I  any  desire  to  do  so.  I  am  satisfied  to  be  as  I  am — 
also,  I  rejoice  to  think  that  I  have  the  opportunity  ;  I  wish 
for  nothing  more  except  to  hear  that  you  have  agreed  to 
my  suggestion  and  gone  back  to  Lynn.  As  for  my  mother 
and  myself,  we  shall  perhaps  go  to  the  south  of  France 
wlien  she  is  a  little  stronger  ;  but  at  present  she  is  too  weak 
to  travel ;  and  happily  we  find  ourselves  very  well  content 
with  this  place,  now  that  we  are  familiar  with  it,  and  have 
found  out  different  ways  of  passing  the  time.  It  is  not  so 
wild  and  beautiful  as  Allt-nam-Ba,  but  it  is  a  cheerful  place 
for  an  invalid  :  we  have  a  pretty  balcony,  from  which  we 
can  look  at  the  people  on  the -promenade,  and  the  sea,  and 
the  ships ;  and  we  have  a  pony-carriage  for  the  country 
roads,  and  have  driven  almost  everywhere  in  the  neighbor- 
hood. 

"  So  now  I  will  say  good-by,  dear  Archie  ;  and  1  hope 
you  will  consider  my  proposal ;  and  see  that  it  is  wise. 
What  may  occur  in  the  future,  who  can  tell? — but  in  the 
meantime  let  us  do  what  is  best  for  those  around  us  ;  and 
I  think  this  is  the  right  way.  I  should  feel  far  happier  if  I 
knew  that  you  were  not  wondering  when  this  service  that 
I  owe  to  my  mother  were  to  end  ;  and  also  I  should  feel  far 
happier  to  know  that  I  was  no  longer  the  cause  of  disagree- 
ment and  unhappiness  in  your  family.  Give  my  love  to 
your  sister  when  you  see  her ;  and  if  you  hear  anything 
about  the  Gress  people,  I  should  be  glad  to  hear  some  news 
about  them  also. 

**  Believe  me,  yours  affectionately, 

"  YOLAKDB." 

She  looked  at  this  letter  for  a  long  time  before  putting 
it  into  an  envelope  and  addressing  it ;  and  when  she  posted 
it,  it  was  with  a  guilty  conscience.     So  far  as  it  went,  Bh« 


YOLANDE.  861 

had  told  the  truth.  This  duty  she  owed  to  her  mother  was 
paramount ;  and  she  knew  not  for  how  long  it  might  be  de- 
manded of  her.  And  no  doubt  she  would  feel  freer  and 
more  content  in  her  mind  if  her  engagement  were  broken 
off — if  she  had  no  longer  to  fear  that  he  might  be  becoming 
impatient  over  the  renewed  waiting  and  waiting.  But  that 
was  only  part  of  the  truth.  She  could  not  blind  herself  to 
the  fact  that  this  letter  was  very  little  more  than  a  skillful 
piece  of  prevarication  ;  and  this  consciousness  haunted  her, 
and  troubled  her,  and  shamed  her.  Sliegrew  uneasy.  Her 
mother  noticed  that  the  girl  seemed  anxious  and  distraught, 
and  questioned  her ;  but  Yolande  answered  evasively.  She 
did  not  think  it  worth  while  to  burden  her  mother's  mind 
with  her  private  disquietudes. 

No,  she  had  not  been  true  to  herself ;  and  she  knew  it ; 
and  the  knowledge  brought  shame  to  her  cheeks  when  she 
was  alone.  With  a  conscience  ill  at  eas.',  the  cheerfulness 
with  which  she  set  about  l)er  ordinary  task  of  keeping  her 
mother  employed  and  amused  was  just  a  little  bit  forced  ; 
and  despite  herself  she  fell  into  continual  reveries — think- 
ing of  the  arrival  of  the  letter,  of  his  opening  it,  of  his  pos- 
sible conjectures  about  it.  Then,  besides  these  sraitings  of 
conscience,  there  was  another  thing :  would  he  consider 
the  reason  she  had  advanced  for  breaking  off  the  engage- 
ment as  sufficient?  Would  he  not  declare  himself  willing  to 
wait?  The  tone  of  his  letter  had  been  firm  enough.  He 
was  unmoved  by  this  opposition  on  the  part  of  his  own 
people  ;  it  was  not  to  gain  any  release  that  he  had  written 
to  her.  And  now  might  he  not  still  adhere  to  his  resolution 
— refusing  to  make  up  the  quarrel ;  resolved  to  wait  Yo- 
lande's,  good  pleasure ;  and  so,  in  effect,  requiring  of  her 
the  fulfilment  of  her  plighted  troth  ? 

It  would  be  difficult  to  say  which  was  the  stronger  mo- 
tive— the  shamed  consciousness  that  she  had  not  spoken 
honestly,  or  the  ever-increasing  fear  that,  after  all,  she 
might  not  be  able  to  free  herself  from  this  impossible  bond  ; 
but  at  all  events  she  determined  to  supplement  that  letter 
with  a  franker  one.  Indeed,  she  stole  out  that  same  even- 
ing, under  some  pretence  or  other,  and  went  to  the  post- 
office  and  sent  off  this  telegram  to  him : 

"  Letter  posted  to  you  this  afternoon  :  do  not  answer  it 
until  you  get  the  following."  Then  she  went  back  to  the 
rooms  quickly,  her  heart  somewhat  lighter,  though,  indeed, 
aU  during  dinner  she  was  puzzling  to  decide   what  she 


862  YOLANDE. 

should  say,  and  how  to  make  her  confession  not  too  humv 
liating.  She  did  not  wish  him  to  think  too  badly  of  her. 
Was  it  not  possible  for  them  to  part  friends  ?  Or  would  he 
be  angry,  and  call  her  *'jilt,"  "light  o'  love,"  and  so 
forth,  as  she  had  called  herself?  Indeed,  she  had  re- 
proached herself  enough;  anything  that  he  could  say  would 
be  nothing  new  to  her.  Only  she  hoped — for  she  had  had 
a  gentle  kind  of  regard  for  him,  and  he  had  been  mixed  up 
in  her  imaginings  of  the  future,  and  they  had  spent  happy 
days  and  evenings  together,  on  l>oard  ship  or  in  the  small 
lodge  between  the  streams — that  they  might  part  friends, 
without  angry  words. 

"Yolande  there  is  something  troubling  you,"  her 
mother  said,  as  they  sat  at  table. 

She  had  been  watching  the  girl  in  her  sad,  tender  way. 
As  soon  as  she  had  spoken  Yolande  instantly  pulled  herself 
together. 

"Why,  yes,  there  is  indeed !"  she  said.  "Shall  I  tell 
you  what  it  is  mother?  I  have  been  thinking  that  soon  we 
shall  be  as  tired  of  pheasants  as  we  were  of  grouse  and  hares. 
Papa  sends  us  far  too  many;  or  rather  it  is  Mr.  Shortlands 
now  ;  and  I  don't  know  what  to  do  with  them — unless 
somebody  in  the  town  would  exchange  them.  Is  it  possi- 
ble ?  Would  not  that  be  an  occupation,  now — to  sit  in  a 
poulterer's  shop  and  say,  '  I  will  give  you  three  brace  of 
pheasants  for  so  many  of  this  and  so  many  of  that?  '  " 

"  You  wrote  a  long  letter  this  afternoon,"  the  mother 
said,  absently.     "  Was  it  to  Mr.  Shortlands  ?  " 

"  Oh  no,"  Yolande  said,  with  a  trifle  of  color  in  her 
face.  "  It  was  to  the  Master  of  Lynn.  I  have  often  told 
you  about  him,  mother.  And  one  thing  I  quite  forgot.  I 
forgot  to  ask  him  to  inquire  of  Mrs.  Bell  where  the  ballad 
of  '  Young  Randal'  is  to  be  found — you  remember  I  told 
you  the  story  ?  No,  there  is  nothing  of  it  in  the  stupid 
book  I  got  yesterday — no,  nor  any  story  like  it,  except,  pei- 
haps,  one  where  a  Lord  Lovat  of  former  times  comes  home 
from  Palestine  and  asks  for  May  Maisrey. 

*  And  bonnier  than  them  a' 
May  Maisrey,  where  is  she  V  * 

It  18  a  pretty  name,  is  it  not  mother  ?  But  I  think  I  must 
write  to  Mrs.  Bell  to  send  me  the  words  of  *  Young 
Randal,*  if  it  is  not  to  be  found  in  a  book." 


YOLANDE,  ^m 

"  I  wish  you  wonld  go  away  to  your  friends  now,  Yo- 
Jande,"  the  mother  said,  regarding  her  in  that  sad  and  affec- 
tioiiHte  way. 

"  That  is  so  very  likely ! "  she  answered,  with  much 
cheerfulness. 

"  You  ought  to  go,  Yolande.  Why  should  you  remain 
here  ?  Why  should  you  be  shut  up  here — away  from  all 
your  friends?  You  have  done  what  you  came  for — I  feel 
that  now — you  need  not  fear  to  leave  me  alone  now — to 
leave  me  in  these  same  lodgings.  1  can  stay  here  very 
well,  and  amuse  myself  with  books  and  with  looking  at  the 
people  passing.  I  should  not  be  dull.  I  like  the  rooms. 
I  should  find  amusement  enough." 

"  And  where  am  I  to  go,  then  ?  "  the  girl  said,  calmly. 

''  To  your  friends — to  all  those  people  you  have  told  me 
about.  That  is  the  proper  kind  of  life  for  you,  at  your  age 
— not  shut  up  in  lodgings.  The  lady  in  the  Highlands,  for 
example,  Avho  wants  you  to  spend  Christmas  there." 

"  Weil,  now,  dear  mother,"  said  Yolande,  promptly,  "  I 
will  not  show  you  another  one  of  my  letters  if  you  take  the 
nonsense  in  them  as  if  it  were  serious.  Christmas,  indeed ! 
Why,  do  you  know  where  we  shall  be  at  Christmas  ? 
Well,  then,  at  Monte  Carlo  ?  No,  mother,  you  need  not 
look  forward  to  the  tables ;  I  will  not  permit  any  such 
wickedness,  though  I  have  staked  more  than  once — or, 
rather,  papa  staked  for  me — five-franc  pieces,  and  always 
I  won — for  as  soon  as  I  had  won  five  francs  I  came  away 
to  make  sure.  But  we  shall  not  go  to  the  tables ; 
there  is  enough  without  that.  There  are  beautiful  drives  ; 
and  you  can  walk  through  the  gardens  and  down  the  ter 
races  until  you  get  a  boat  to  go  out  on  the  blue  wat^r. 
Then,  the  other  side  you  take  a  carriage  and  drive  u])  to 
the  little  town,  and  by  the  sea  there  are  more  beautiful 
gardens.  And  at  Monte  Carlo  I  know  an  excellent  hotel, 
with  tine  views  ;  and  always  there  is  excellent  music.  And 
— and  you  think  1  am  going  to  spend  Christmas  in  a  High- 
land glen  I     Grazie  alia  honta  sua  I " 

"  It  is  too  much  of  a  sacrifice.  You  must  leave  me  to 
myself — I  can  do  very  well  by  myself  now,"  the  mother 
said,  looking  at  the  girl  with  wistful  eyes.  ''  I  should  be 
ha])py  enougli  only  to  hear  of  you.  I  should  like  to  hear 
of  your  being  married,  Yolande." 

"  I  am  not  likely  to  be  married  to  any  one,"  said  she, 
with  averted  eyes  and  burning  forehead.     "Do  not  speak 


364  YOLANDE, 

of  it,  mother.     My  place  is  by  you ;  and  here  I  remain — ^un- 
til you  turn  me  away." 

That  same  night  she  wrote  the  letter  which  was  to  sup- 
plement the  former  one  and  free  her  conscience : 

"  Dear  Archie, — In  the  letter  I  sent  you  this  afternoon 
I  was  not  quite  frank  with  you ;  and  I  can  not  rest  until  I 
tell  you  so.  There  are  other  reasons  besides  those  I  men- 
tioned why  I  think  our  engagement  should  be  broken  oi¥ 
now  ;  and  also,  for  I  wish  to  be  quite  honest,  and  to  throw 
myself  on  your  generosity  and  forbearance,  why  I  think 
that  we  ought  not  to  look  forward  to  the  marriage  that  was 
thought  of.  Perhaps  you  will  ask  me  what  these  reasons 
are — and  you  have  the  right ;  and  in  that  case  I  will  tell 
you.  But  perhaps  you  will  be  kind,  and  not  ask ;  and  I 
should  never  forget  your  kindness.  When  I  promised  to 
marry  you,  I  thought  that  the  friendliness  and  affection  that 
prevailed  between  us  was  enough ;  I  did  not  imagine  any 
thing  else ;  you  must  think  of  how  I  was  brought  up,  witli 
scarcely  any  women  friends  except  the  ladies  at  the  chateau, 
who  were  very  severe  as  to  the  duty  of  children  to  their 
parents,  and  w^hen  I  learned  that  my  papa  approved  my 
marrying  you,  it  was  sufficient  for  me.  But  now  I  think 
not.  I  do  not  think  I  should  bring  you  happiness.  There 
ought  to  be  no  regret  on  the  marriage-day — no  thoughts 
of  going  away  elsewhere.  You  have  the  right  to  be  angry 
with  me,  because  I  have  been  careless,  and  allowed  myself 
to  become  affectionate  to  some  one  else  without  my  know- 
ing it ;  but  it  w^as  not  wath  intention  ;  and  now  that  I  know% 
should  1  be  doing  right  in  allowing  our  engagement  to  con- 
tinue ?  Yes,  you  have  the  right  to  upbraid  me  ;  but  you 
can  not  think  worse  of  me  than  I  think  of  myself  ;  and  per- 
haps it  is  well  that  the  mistake  was  soon  found  out,  before 
harm  was  done.  As  for  me,  my  path  is  clear.  All  that  I 
said  in  the  other  letter  as  to  the  immediate  future,  and  I 
hope  the  distant  future  also,  is  true  ;  you  have  only  to  look 
at  this  other  explanation  to  know^  exactly  how  I  am  situ- 
ated. I  welcome  my  position  and  its  duties — they  drive  away 
sometimes  sad  thinking  and  regret  over  what  has  happened. 
You  were  ahvays  very  kind  and  considerate  tome;  you 
deserved  that  I  kept  my  faith  to  you  more  strictly;  and  if  I 
were  to  see  your  sister,  what  should  I  say  ?  Only  that  I  am 
sorry  that  I  can  make  no  more  amends ;  and  to  beg  for 
your  forgiveness  and  for  hers.     And  perhaps  it  is  better  ai 


YOLANDE.  S(J5 

it  is  for  all  of  us.  My  way  is  clear.  I  must  be  with  ray 
mother.  Perhaps,  some  day,  if  our  engagement  had  con- 
tinued, I  might  have  been  tempted  to  repine.  I  hope  not ; 
but  I  have  no  longer  such  faith  in  myself.  But  now  you 
are  free  from  the  impatience  of  waiting;  and  I — I  go  ray 
own  way,  and  am  all  the  more  certain  to  give  all  my  devo- 
tion where  it  is  needed.  1  would  pray  you  not  to  think 
too  harshly  of  me,  only  I  know  that  I  have  not  the  right  to 
ask ;  and  I  should  like  to  p^rt  friends  with  you,  if  only  for 
the  sake  of  the  memories  that  one  treasures.  My  letter  is 
ill-expressed — that  I  am  sure  it  must  be  ;  but  perhaps  you 
will  guess  at  anytliing  I  should  have  said  and  have  not  said ; 
and  believe  that  I  could  stretch  out  my  hands  to  you  to  beg 
for  your  forgiveness,  and  for  gentle  thoughts  of  me  in  the 
future,  after  some  years  have  given  us  time  to  look  back.  I 
do  not  think  little  of  any  kindness  that  has  been  shown  to 
me ;  and  I  shall  remember  your  kindness  to  me  always  ; 
and  also  your  sister's;  and  the  kindness  of  every  one,  as  it 
seemed  to  me,  whom  I  met  in  the  Highlands.  I  have  made 
this  cc^ifession  to  you  without  consulting  any  one  ;  for  it  is 
a  matter  only  between  you  and  me ;  and  I  do  not  know  how 
you.  will  receive  it;  only  that  I  pray  you  once  more  for 
your  forgiveness,  and  not  to  think  too  harshly,  but,  if  you 
have  such  gentleness  and  commiseration,  to  let  us  remain 
friends,  and  to  think  of  each  other  in  the  future  as  not  alto- 
gether strangers.  I  know  it  is  much  that  I  ask,  and  that 
you  have  the  right  to  refuse ;  but  I  shall  look  for  your 
letter  with  the  rememberance  of  your  kindness  in  the 
past. 

TOLANDE." 

ll  was  a  piteous  kind  of  letter  ;  for  she  felt  very  solitary 
and  unguidcd  in  this  crisis  ;  moreover,  it  was  rather  hard 
to  fight  through  this  thing,  and  preserve  at  the  same  time 
an  appearance  of  absolute  cheerfulness,  so  long  as  her  mo- 
ther was  in  the  room.  But  she  got  it  done  ;  and  Jane  was 
sent  out  to  the  post-office ;  and  thereafter  Yolande — with 
something  of  trial  and  trouble  in  her  eyes,  perhaps,  but 
otherwise  with  a  brave  face — fetched  down  some  volumes 
from  the  little  book-case,  and  asked  her  mother  what  she 
wanted  to  have  read. 


i€6  YOLANDE. 

CHAPTER  XLIV. 

THE    HOUR    OF    VENGEANCE. 

The  Master  of  Lynn  had  spent  the  whole  of  the  morning 
in  arranging  affairs  with  his  father's  agent ;  and  when  he 
left  Mr.  Ronald  Macpherson's  office  he  knew  that  he  had 
now  all  tlie  world  to  choose  from.  He  was  anxious  to  get 
away  from  this  dawdling  life  in  Inverness  ;  but,  on  the 
other  liand,  he  was  not  going  back  to  Lynn.  He  still  felt  an- 
gry and  indignant;  he  considered  he  had  been  badly  used  ;  and 
it  is  far  from  improbable  that  if,  at  this  moment,  Yolande 
had  been  differently  situated,  and  if  Mr.  Winterbourne  had 
been  likely  to  give  his  consent,  he,  the  Master,  would  now 
have  proposed  an  immediate  mai-riage,  leaving  his  father  and 
aunt  to  do  or  think  as  they  pleased.  But,  in  the  present 
circumstances,  that  was  impossible  ;  and  he  did  n15t  know 
well  which  way  to  turn  ;  and  had  generally  got  himself  into 
an  unsettled,  impatient,  irritable  condition,  which  boded  no 
good  either  for  himself  or  for  them  who  had  thwarted  him. 

He  returned  to  the  Station  Hotel,  and  was  having  lunch 
by  himself  in  the  large  and  almost  empty  dining-room,  when 
two  letters  were  brought  him  which  liad  doubtless  arrived 
by  that  morning's  mail.  As  he  was  thinking  of  many  things, 
it  did  not  occur  to  him  to  look  at  both  addresses  and  decide 
which  letter  should  have  precedence ;  he  mechanically 
opened  and  read  the  first  that  came  to  hand : 

St.  James's  Club,  Piccadilly,  October  31. 

"  Dear  Leslie, — Ai«  you  game  for  a  cruise  ?  I  will  go 
where  you  like  ;  and  start  any  day  you  like.  1  have  never 
taken  the  Juliet  across  the  Atlantic — what  do  you  say  ? 
The  worst  of  it  is,  there  ain't  much  to  see  when  you  get 
there  ;  but  we  should  have  some  fun  going  over  and  coming 
back.  Drop  me  a  line.  She  is  at  Plymouth,  and  could  be 
got  ready  in  a  week. 

"  Yours  ever,  Dartown." 

"  llTow,  to  have  a  three-hundred-ton  steam-yacht  put  at 
your  disposal  is  an  agreeable  kind  of  thing ;  but  there  were 


YO  LANDS.  867 

Other  circumstances  in  this  case.  Lord  Dartown  was  a 
young  Irish  peer  who  had  inherited  an  ilhistrious  name, 
large  estates  (fortunately  for  him,  some  of  them  were  in 
England),  and  a  sufficiency  of  good  looks ;  but  who,  on  the 
other  hand,  seemed  determined  to  bid  a  speedy  farewell  to 
all  of  these  by  means  of  incessant  drinking.  His  friends 
regarded  him  with  much  interest,  for  he  was  doing  it  on  dry 
champagne  ;  and  as  that  is  a  most  unusual  circumstance — • 
champagne  being  somewhat  too  much  of  child's  play  for 
the  serious  drinker — they  looked  on  and  wondered  how  long 
it  would  last,  and  repeated  incredible  stories  as  to  the 
number  of  bottles  this  youth  could  consume  from  the  mo- 
ment of  his  awaking  in  his  berth  until  his  falling  asleep  in 
the  same.  The  Jxiliet  was  an  exceedingly  well-appointed 
vessel ;  the  cook  had  a  reputation  that  a  poet  might  envy  ; 
but  the  habits  of  the  owner  were  peculiar,  and  most  fre- 
quently he  had  to  make  his  cruises  alone.  But  he  had  al- 
ways had  a  great  respect  for  the  Master  of  Lynn,  who  was 
his  senior  by  a  year  or  two,  when  they  were  school-fellows 
together ;  and  sometimes  in  later  years  a  kind  of  involun- 
tary admiration  for  the  firm  nerve  and  hardened  frame  of 
his  deer-stalking  friend  would  lead  to  a  temporary  fit  of  re- 
formation, and  he  would  even  take  to  practising  with  dumb- 
bells, which  his  trembling  muscles  could  scarcely  hold  out 
at  afm^s-length. 

"  Owley  must  be  off  his  head  altogether  this  time," 
the  Master  of  Lynn  coolly  said  to  himself,  as  he  regarded 
the  shaky  handwriting  of  the  letter.  ''  To  think  of  facing 
the  "rolling  forties  '  at  this  time  of  year  !  We  should  die 
of  cold  besides.  Not  good  enough,  Owley  :  you  must 
throw  a  fly  over  somebody  else." 

So  he  put  that  letter  aside,  and  took  up  the  other.  It 
was  the  second  one  of  the  two  that  Yolande  had  sent  him  ; 
he  had  got  its  predecessor  on  the  previous  day.  And  now, 
as  he  read  this  final  declaration  and  confession,  it  was  with 
an  ever-increasing  surprise  ;  but  it  certainly  was  with  no 
sense  of  dismay  or  disappointment,  or  even  the  resentment 
of  wounded  vanity.  He  did  not  even,  at  this  moment  heed 
the  piteous  appeal  for  charity  and  kindliness  ;  it  was  not  of 
her  he  was  thinking,  and  scarcely  of  himself  ;  it  was  rather 
of  the  people  at  Lynn, 

"  Now  I  will  show  them  what  they  have  done  I  "  he 
was  saying  to  himself,  with  a  kind  of  triumph.  "  They 
■hall  see  what  they  have  done,  and  I  hope  they  will  bo  sat- 


d68  YOLANDE. 

islied.  As  for  me,  I  am  going  my  own  way  after  this.  1 
have  had  enongh  of  it.  Polly  may  scheme  as  she  likes  * 
aud  they  may  rage,  or  refuse,  or  go  to  the  deuce,  if  they  like  ; 
I  am  going  to  look  after  myself  now." 

He  picked  up  the  other  letter,  and  took  both  with  him 
into  the  writing-room  ;  he  had  forgotten  that  he  had  left 
his  lunch  but  half  finished.  And  there  he  read  Yolande's 
appeal  to  him  with  more  care  ;  and  he  was  touched  by  tlie 
penitence  and  the  simplicity,  and  the  eager  wish  for  friend- 
liness in  it  ;  and  he  determined,  as  he  sat  down  at  the 
writing-table,  that,  as  far  as  he  had  command  of  the  English 
language,  she  should  have  safe  assurance  that  they  were  to 
])art  on  kindly  terms.  Indeed,  as  it  turned  out,  this  was 
the  most  affectionate  letter  lie  had  ever  sent  her  ;  and  it 
might  have  been  said  of  him,  with  regard  to  this  engage- 
ment, that  nothing  in  it  so  well  became  him  as  his  manner 
of  leaving  it  : 

"  My  Dearest  Yolande,"  lie  wrote, — "  I  am  inexpres- 
sibly grieved  tliat  you  should  have  given  yourself  the  pain 
to  write  such  a  letter  ;  and  you  might  have  known  that 
whenever  you  wished  our  engagement  to  cease  I  should  con- 
sider you  had  the  right  to  say  so,  and  so  far  from  accusing 
you  or  doing  anything  in  the  tragedy  line,  I  should  beg  to 
be  allowed  to  remain  always  your  friend.  And  it  won't 
take  any  length  of  time  for  me  to  be  on  quite  friendly  terms 
with  you — if  you  will  let  me  ;  for  I  am  so  now  ;  and  if  I 
saw  you  to-morrow  I  should  be  glad  of  your  companionship 
for  as  long  as  you  chose  to  give  it  me  ;  and  I  don't  at  all 
think  it  impossible  that  we  may  have  many  another  stroll 
along  the  streets  of  Inverness,  when  you  come  back  to  the 
Highlands,  as  you  are  sure  to  do.  Of  course  1  am  quite 
sensible  of  what  I  have  lost — you  can't  expect  me  to  be 
otherwise  ;  and  I  dare  say  if  all  the  circumstances  had  been 
propitious,  and  if  we  had  married,  we  should  have  got  on 
very  well  together — for  when  Polly  attributes  everthing 
that  happens  to  my  temper,  that  is  merely  because  she  is 
in  the  wrong,  and  can't  find  any  other  excuse  ;  whereas,  if 
you  and  I  had  got  married,  I  fancy  we  should  have  agreed 
very  well,  so  long  as  no  one  interfered.  But,  to  tell  you 
the  honest  truth,  my  dear  Yolande,  I  never  did  think  you 
were  very  anxious  about  it  ;  you  seemed  to  regard  our 
engagement  as  a  very  light  matter — or  as  something  that 
would  please  everybody  all  round  ;  aud  though  I  trusted 


TOLANDE)^    y>  .  02^         ,^mU 

thnt  the  futnre  would  right  all  that — I  Incah'that  we  Sliouid 
become  more  intimate  and  affectionate — still,  there  would 
have  been  a  risk  ;  and  it  is  only  common-sense  to  regard 
these  things  now  as  some  consolation,  and  as  some  reason 
why,  if  you  say,  "  Let  us  break  off  this  engagement,*'  I 
should  say,  "  Very  well  ;  but  let  us  continue  our  friend- 
ship." 

"  But  there  is  a  tremendous  favor  I  would  beg  and  en- 
treat of  you,  dearest  Yolande ;  and  you  always  had  the 
most  generous  disposition — I  never  knew  you  to  refuse  any- 
body anything  (I  do  believe  that  was  why  you  got  engaged 
to  me — ^because  you  thought  it  would  please  the  Grahams 
and  all  the  rest  of  us),  I  do  hope  that  you  will  consent  to 
keep  the  people  at  Lynn  in  ignorance — they  could  only 
know  through  Polly,  and  you  could  keep  it  back  from  her — 
as  to  who  it  was,  or  why  it  was,  that  our  engagement  was 
broken  off.  This  is  not  from  vanity  ;  I  think  you  will  say  I 
haven't  shown  much  of  that  sort  of  distem])er.  It  is  merely 
that  I  may  have  the  Avliip-hand  of  the  Lynn  people.  They 
have  used  me  badly ;  and  I  mean  to  take  care  that  they 
don't  serve  me  so  again  ;  and  if  they  imagine  that  our  en- 
gagement had  been  broken  off  solely,  or  even  partly,  through 
their  opposition,  that  will  be  a  weapon  for  me  in  the  future. 
And  then  the  grounds  of  their  opposition — that  they  or  their  . 
friends  might  have  to  associate  with  one  professing  such 
opinions  as  those  your  father  owns  !  You  may  rest  assured, 
dearest  Yolande,  that  I  did  not  put  you  forward  and  make 
any  appeal  ;  and  equally  I  knew  you  would  resent  ray 
making  any  apology  for  your  father,  or  allowing  that  any 
consideration  on  their  part  was  demanded.  It's  no  use  rea- 
soning with  raving  maniacs  ;  I  retired.  But  I  mention  this 
once  more  as  an  additional  reason  why,  if  our  engagement 
is  to  be  broken  off,  we  should  make  up  our  minds  to  look  on 
the  best  side  of  affairs,  and  to  part  on  the  best  of  terms  ;  for 
I  must  confess  more  frankly  to  you  now  that  there  would 
have  been  some  annoyance,  and  you  would  naturally  have 
been  angry  on  account  of  your  father,  and  I  should  have 
taken  your  side,  and  there  would  simply  have  been  a  series 
of  elegant  family  so'uabbles. 

"  There  are  one  or  two  other  points  in  your  letter  that 
I  don't  touch  on  ;  except  to  say  that  I  hope  you  will  write 
to  me  agam— and  soon ;  and  that  you  will  write  in  a  very 
different  tone.  I  hope  you  will  see  that  many  things  justi- 
fy you  in  so  doing ;  and  I  hope  I  have  made  this   letter  as 


870  YOLANDE. 

plain  as  can  be.  I  have  kept  back  nothing ;  so  you  needn't 
be  reading  between  the  lines.  If  you  have  no  time  to  write 
a  letter,  send  nie  a  few  words  to  show  that  you  are  in  a 
more  cheerful  mood.  If  you  don't  I  shouldn't  wonder  if  I 
broke  through  all  social  observances,  aud  presented  myself 
at  your  door —  to  convince  you  that  you  have  done  quite 
right,  and  that  everytliing  is  well,  and  that  you  have  given 
nie  a  capital  means  of  having  it  out  with  the  Lynn  people 
wlien  the  proper  times  comes.  So  please  let  me  have  a  few 
lines ;  and  in  the  meantime  I  hope  I  may  be  allowed  to 
sign  myself. 

"  Yours,  most  affectionately,  A.  Leslie. 

"  P.S. — Do  you  remember  my  telling  you  of  the  small 
youth  who  was  my  fag — the  cheeky  young  party  wlio  was 
always  smuggling  champagne  and  pastry  ?  I  may  have 
told  you  that  he  is  now  the  owner  of  a  three-hundred-ton 
yacht?  Well,  he  wants  me  to  go  a  cruise  with  him.  I  had 
not  intended  doing  so ;  but  it  occurs  to  me  that  I  might  do 
worse — as  all  my  affairs  are  settled  up  here ;  and  so,  if  you 
can  write  to  me  within  the  next  few  days,  will  you  please 
address  me  at  the Hotel,  Jermyn  Street?" 

Then  he  wrote  : — 

Inverness,  October  31. 

"  Dear  Owlet, — It  isn't  a  compagnon  de  voyage  you 
want;  it's  a  straight-waistcoat.  You  would  knock  the 
Juliet  all  to  bits  if  you  took  her  across  now ;  and  a  fine 
thing  to  choose  winter  for  a  visit  to  New  York,  where  the 
weather  is  cold  enough  to  freeze  the  ears  off  a  brass 
monkey.  This  letter  will  reach  London  same  time  as  my- 
self; so  you  can  look  me  up  at Hotel,  Jermyn  Street; 

and  I'll  talk  to  you  like  a  father  about  it.  My  notion  is  you 
should  send  the  Juliet  to  Gib.,  and  we  could  make  our  way 
down  through  Spain  ;  or,  if  that  is  too  tedious  for  your 
lordship,  send  her  to  Marseilles,  and  then  we  could  fill  up 
the  intervening  time  in  Paris.  I  have  never  been  to  Venice 
in  a  yacht ;  and  don't  remember  whether  you  can  get  near 
enough  to  Danieli's  to  make  it  handy ;  but  I  suppose,  even 
if  you  have  to  lie  down  by  the  Giudecca,  there  would  be 
no  difficulty  about  getting  people  to  a  dance  on  board  ? 
I'll  see  you  through  it. 

Yours,  A.  Lbslib, 


I 


YOLANDE.  371 

And  then  (for  now  the  hour  of  vengeance  had  struck) 
he  wrote  as  follows  to  his  sister : — 

Station  Hotel,  October  Z\* 
"  Dear  Polly, — I  have  to  inform  you,  and  I  hope  you 
will  convey  the  information  to  his  papaship  and  to  Aunty 
Tab,  that  my  engagement  to  Yolande  Winterbourne  is 
finally,  definitely,  and  irrevocably  broken  off.  I  hope  they 
will  be  satisfied.  I  shall  be  more  careful  another  time  to 
keep  the  affair  in  my  own  hands. 

"  I  am  off  for  a  cruise  with  Dartown,  in  the  Juliet. 
Guess  there'll  be  about  as  much  fluid  inside  as  outside  that 
noble  craft. 

"  Your  affectionate  brother,  Aechie. 

And  then,  having  folded  up  and  addressed  his  letters, 
he  arose  and  went  outside  and  lit  a  cigar.  He  thought  he 
would  have  a  stroll  away  through  the  town  and  out  by  the 
harbor,  just  to  think  over  this  that  had  occurred,  and 
what  was  likely  to  occur  in  the  future.  It  happened  to  be 
a  very  bright  and  cheerful  afternoon ;  and  he  walked  quickly, 
with  a  sort  of  glad  consciousness  that  he  was  now  master  of 
his  own  destiny,  and  meant  to  remain  so;  and  when  he 
came  in  sight  of  the  ruffled  and  windy  blue  sea,  that  had 
suggestions  of  voyaging  and  the  seeing  of  strange  places  that 
wer€  pleasant  enough.  Then  his  cigar  drew  well ;  and  that, 
although  it  may  be  unconsciously,  tells  on  a  man's  mood. 
Pie  began  to  be  rather  grateful  to  Yolande.  He  hoped  she 
would  quite  understand  his  letter ;  and  answer  it  in  the  old 
familiar,  affectionate  way,  just  as  if  nothing  had  occurred. 
It  distressed  him  to  think  she  should  be  in  such  grief — in 
such  penitence.  But  he  knew  he  should  get  some  cheerful 
lines  from  her ;  and  that,  and  all,  was  well. 

By-and-by,  however,  a  very  uncomfortable  suspicion  got 
liold  of  him.  He  had  had  no  very  large  experience  of  women 
and  their  ways ;  and  he  began  to  ask  liimself  whether  the 
ready  acquiescence  he  had  yielded  to  Yolande's  prayer 
would  please  her  overmuch.  It  certainly  was  not  flattering 
to  her  vanity.  For  one  thing,  he  could  not  wholly  explain 
his  position  to  her.  He  could  not  tell  her  that  he  had  vir- 
tually said  to  his  father,  "  Plere  is  a  way  of  getting  back 
Ck)rrievreak ;  and  getting  the  whole  estate  into  proper 
condition.  You  refuse  ?  Very  well ;  you  mayn't  get 
another  chance,  remem])er."    He  could  not  fully  explain  t« 


872  YOLANDE. 

her  why  her  proposal,  instead  of  brmging  him  disappointr 
ment,  was  rather  welcome,  as  offering  him  a  means  of  ven- 
geance for  the  annoyance  he  had  been  subjected  to.  She 
knew  nothing  of  Shena  Van.  She  knew  nothing  of  the  pro- 
posal to  complete  the  Lynn  deer  forest.  So  he  began  to 
think  that  his  letter,  breaking  off  the  engagement  so  very 
willingly,  might  not  wholly  please  her;  and  as  he  was  well 
disj^osed  toward  Yolande  at  that  moment,  and  honestly  de- 
siring that  they  should  part  the  best  of  friends,  he  slowly 
walked  back  to  the  hotel,  composing  a  few  more  sentences 
by  the  way,  so  that  her  womanlv  pride  should  not  be  wound- 
ed. 

But  it  was  a  difficult  mattei*.  He  went  upstairs  to  his 
room,  and  packed  his  things  for  the  journey  to  London,  while 
thinking  over  what  lie  would  say  to  her.  And  it  was  very 
near  dinner-time  before  he  had  finished  this  addendum  to 
his  previous  letter  : 

"  My  dearest  Yolande,"  he  wrote, — "  I  want  to  say 
something  more  to  you  ;  if  you  get  the  two  letters  together, 
read  thirS  one  second.  Perhaps  you  may  think,  from  what 
I  said  in  the  other,  that  I  did  not  sufficiently  value  the  pros- 
pect that  was  before  me  at  one  time,  or  else  I  should  say 
something  more  about  losing  it.  I  am  afraid  you  may  think 
1  have  given  you  up  too  easily  and  lightly ;  but  you  would 
make  a  great  mistake  if  you  think  I  don't  know  what  I  have 
lost.  Only  I  did  not  want  to  make  it  too  grave  a  matter  ; 
your  letter  was  very  serious,  and  I  want  you  to  think,  that 
there  is  no  reason  why  we  should  not  continue  on  quite 
friendly  and  intimate  terms.  Of  course  I  know  what  I  have 
lost  ;  I  wasn't  so  long  in  your  society — on  board  ship, 
and  in  the  dahabeeyah,  too,  and  at  Allt-nam-Ba — without 
seeing  how  generous  you  were,  and  sincere  and  anxious  to 
make  every  one  around  you  happy;  and  if  it  comes  to 
that,  and  if  you  will  let  me  say  it,  a  man  naturally  looks 
forward  with  some  pride  to  having  always  him  a  wife 
who  can  hold  her  own  with  everybody  in  regard  to  per- 
sonal appearance,  and  grace  and  finish  of  manner,  and  ac- 
complishments. Of  course  I  know  what  I  have  lost.  I 
am  not  blind.  I  always  looked  forward  to  seeing  you  and 
Polly  together  at  the  ball  at  the  Northern  Meeting.  But 
when  you  say  it  is  impossible,  and  seem  put  out  about  it, 
naturally  I  tried  to  find  out  reasons  for  looking  at  the  best 
side  of  the  matter.  It  is  the  wisest  way.  When  you  miss 
a  bird  it  is  of  no  use  saying,  *  Confound  it,  I  have  misged  ; 


YOLANDE,  87S 

It  18  mnch  better  to  say,  *  Thank  goodness  I  didn't  go  near 
It  ;  it  won't  go  away  wounded.'  And,  quite  apart  from 
anything  you  said  in  your  letter  of  to-day,  there  was  enough 
in  your  letter  of  yesterday  to  warrant  us  both  in  consenting 
to  break  off  the  engagement,  Circumstances  woic  against 
it  on  both  sides.  Of  course  I  would  have  gone  on — as  I 
wrote  to  you.  A  man  can't  be  such  a  cur  as  to  break  his 
word  to  his  promised  wife  simply  because  his  relatives  are 
ill-tempered — at  least,  if,  I  came  across  such  a  gentleman  he 
wouldn't  very  long  be  any  acquaintance  of  mine.  But  there 
would  have  been  trouble  and  family  squabbles,  as  I  say*  if 
not  a  complete  family  separation — which  could  not  be 
pleasant  to  a  young  wife  ;  and  then,  on  your  side,  there  is 
this  duty  to  your  mother,  which  was  not  contemplated 
when  we  were  engaged  ;  and  so,  when  we  consider  every- 
thing, perhaps  it  is  better  as  it  is.  I  dare  say,  if  we  had 
married,  we  should  have  been  as  contented  as  most  people ; 
and  I  should  have  been  veiy  proud  of  you  as  my  wife,  natu- 
rally;  but  it  is  no  use  speculating  on  what  might  have  been. 
It  is  very  fortunate,  when  an  engagement  is  broken  off,  if 
not  a  particle  of  blame  attaches  to  either  side  :  and  in  that 
way  we  should  consider  ourselves  lucky,  as  giving  no  handle 
for  any  ill-natured  gossip. 

"  Of  course  Polly  will  be  cut  up  about  it.  She  always 
had  an  extraordinary  affection  for  you ;  and  looked  forward 
to  your  being  her  sister.  Graham  will  be  disappointed  too  ; 
yon  were  always  liery  highly  valued  in  that  quarter.  But 
if  you  and  I  are  of  one  mind  that  the  decision  we  have 
come  to  is  a  wise  one,  it  is  our  business,  and  no  one  else's." 

He  stopped  and  read  over  again  those  last  sentences. 

"  I  consider,  now,"  he  was  saying  to  himself,  "  that 
that  is  a  friendly  touch — No  blame  attaching  to  either  side: 
that  will  please  her ;  she  always  was  very  sensitive,  and 
pleased  to  be  thought  well  of.'* 

"  And  even,"  he  continued,  "  if  I  should  get  reconciled 
to  my  people  (about  which  I  am  in  no  hurry),  Lynn  will 
seem  a  lonely  place  after  this  autumn  ;  and  I  suppose  I  shall 
conceive  a  profound  detestation  for  next  year's  tenant  of 
AUt-nam-Ba.  Probably  two  or  three  bachelor  fellows  will 
have  the  Lodge  ;  and  it  will  be  pipes  and  brandy-and-soda 
and  limited  loo  in  the  evening ;  they  won't  know  that  there 
was  once  a  fairy  living  in  that  glen.  But  I  don't  despair 
of  seeing  you  again  in  the  Highlands,  and  your  father  too  ; 
and,  as  they  say  the  subject  of  deer  forests  is  to  be  brought 


874  YOLANDE, 

before  tlie  House,  he  will  now  be  in  a  position  to  talk  a 
little  common-sense  to  them  about  that  subject.  Did  you 
see  that  the  chief  agitator  on  this  matter  has  just  been 
caught  speaking  about  the  grouse  and  red-deer  of  lona? 
Now  1  will  undertake  to  eat  all  the  red-deer  and  all  the 
grouse  he  can  find  in  lona  at  one  meal ;  and  I'll  give  him 
three  months  for  the  search." 

He  thought  this  was  very  cleverly  introduced.  It  was 
to  give  her  the  impression  that  they  could  now  write  to  each 
other  indifferently  on  the  subjects  of  the  day — in  short, 
tha^  they  were  on  terms  of  ordinary  and  pleasant  friend- 
ship. 

''  But  I  dare  say  you  will  consider  me  prejudiced — for 
I  have  been  brought  up  from  ray  infancy,  almost,  with  a 
rifle  in  my  hand  ;  and  so  I  will  end  this  scrawl,  again  ask- 
ing from  you  a  few  lines  just  to  show  that  we  are  friends 
as  before,  and  as  I  hope  we  shall  ever  remain. 
"  Yours,  most  affectionately, 

Abchie  Leslie." 

It  was  a  clever  letter,  he  considered.  The  little  touches 
of  flattery ;  the  business-like  references  to  the  topics  of  the 
day ;  the  frank  appeals  to  her  old  friendship — these  would 
not  be  in  vain.  And  so  he  went  in  to  his  dinner  with  a 
light  heart,  and  the  same  night  went  comfortably  to  sleep 
in  a  saloon-carriage  bound  for  London. 


YOLANDE.  375 


CHAPTER  XLV. 


A    PERILOUS    SITUATION. 


The  Master  of  Lynn,  however,  was  not  destined  to  get  to 
London  without  an  adventure — an  adventure,  moreover,  that 
was  very  near  ending  seriously.  Most  people  who  have  trav- 
elled in  the  north  will  remember  that  the  night  train  from  Inver- 
ness stops  for  a  considerable  time,  in  the  morning,  at  Perth, 
before  setting  out  again  for  the  south ;  and  this  break  in  the 
journey  is  welcome  enough  to  passengers  who  wish  to  have  the 
stains  of  travel  washed  from  their  hands  and  faces,  to  get  their 
breakfast  in  peace  and  comfort,  and  have  their  choice  of  the 
morning  newspapers.  The  Master  of  Lynn  had  accomplished 
these  various  duties ;  and  now  he  was  idly  walking  up  and  down 
the  stone  platforms  of  the  wide-resounding  station,  smoking  a 
cigarette.  He  was  in  a  contented  frame  of  mind.  There  had 
been  too  much  trouble  of  late  up  there  in  the  north ;  and  lie 
hated  trouble ;  and  he  thought  he  would  find  the  society  of 
"  Owley"  very  tolerable,  for  "  Owlcy"  would  leave  him  alone. 
He  finished  his  cigarette ;  had  another  look  at  the  book-stall; 
purchased  a  two-shilling  novel  that  promised  something  fine, 
for  there  was  a  picture  outside  of  a  horse  coming  to  awful 
grief  at  a  steeplechase,  and  its  rider  going  through  the  air  like 
a  cannon-ball ;  and  then  he  strolled  back  to  the  compartment 
he  had  left,  vacantly  whistling  the  while  "The  Hills  of  Lynn." 

Suddenly  he  was  startled  to  find  a  well-known  face  regarding 
him.  It  was  Shena  Van ;  and  «he  was  seated  in  a  corner  of  a 
second-class  carriage.  The  moment  she  saw  that  he  had  noticed 
her  she  averted  her  eyes,  and  pretended  not  to  have  seen  him ; 
but  he  instantly  went  to  the  door  of  the  carriage. 

"  It  isn't  possible  you  are  going  to  London,  Miss  Stewart  T 
said  he,  in  great  surprise. 

"  Oh  no,"  said  Shena  V^n.     "  I  am  not  going  so  far  as  that." 

"  How  far,  then  ?"  he  asked — for  he  saw  that  she  was  embar- 
rassed, and  only  wishing  to  get  rid  of  him,  and  certainly  that  she 
would  afford  no  information  that  wasn't  asked  for. 


376  YOLANDE. 

"  I  am  going  to  Carlisle,"  said  she,  not  looking  at  him. 

"  And  alone  ?" 

"  Oh  yes.  But  my  brother's  friends  will  be  waiting  for  m«  at 
the  station." 

"  Oh,  you  must  let  me  accompany  you,  though,"  said  he, 
quickly.     "  You  won't  mind  ?" 

He  did  not  give  her  the  chance  of  refusing ;  for  he  had  little 
enough  time  in  which  to  fetch  his  things  along  from  the  other 
carriage.  Then  he  had  to  call  the  newsboy,  and  present  to  Miss 
Stewart  such  an  assortment  of  illustrated  papers,  comic  journals, 
and  magazines  as  might  have  served  for  a  voyage  to  Australia. 
And  then  the  door  was  shut,  the  whistle  shrieked,  and  the  long, 
heavy  train  moved  slowly  out  of  the  station. 

"Well,  now,"  said  he,  "this  is  lucky  !  Who  could  have  ex- 
pected it?     I  did  not  see  you  at  the  station  last  night." 

She  had  seen  him,  however,  though  she  did  not  say  so. 

"  I  did  not  even  know  you  were  in  Inverness ;  I  thought  you 
were  at  Aberdeen." 

"  1  have  been  in  Aberdeen,"  said  she.  "I  only  went  back  a 
day  or  two  ago  to  get  ready  for  going  south." 

"  I  suppose  I  mustn't  ask  you  what  is  taking  you  to  Carlisle  ? 
— and  yet  we  used  to  be  old  friends,  you  know." 

Now  Miss  Stewart  was  a  little  bit  annoyed  at  his  thrusting 
himself  on  her  society,  and  she  was  very  near  answering  saucily 
that  it  was  the  train  that  was  taking  her  south ;  but  a  little 
touch  of  feminine  vanity  saved  him  from  that  reproof.  Shena 
Van  was  rather  glad  to  have  the  chance  of  telling  him  why  she 
was  going  south. 

"  It  is  no  great  secret,"  said  she.  "  I  am  going  to  stay  with 
the  family  of  the  young  lady  whom  my  brother  will  marry  be- 
fore long.  It  appears  that  the  professorship  will  be  worth  a 
good  deal  more  than  we  expected — oh  yes,  indeed,  a  good  deal 
more — and  there  is  no  reason  why  he  should  not  marry." 

"  Well,  that  is  good  news,"  said  the  Master,  cheerfully.  "And 
what  sort  of  girl  is  she  ?     NiceT' 

"  She  is  a  very  well-accomplished  young  lady,"  said  Shena 
Van,  with  some  dignity.  "She  was  two  years  in  Germany  at 
school  and  two  years  in  France,  and  she  is  very  well  fitted  to  be 
a  professor's  wife,  and  for  the  society  that  comes  to  my  broth- 
er's house." 

"  I  hope  she's  good-looking?" 

"  As  to  that,"  said  Miss  Stewart,  "I  should  say  she  was  very 
pretty  indeed ;  but  that  is  of  no  consequence  nowadays." 

"  Why,  what  else  is!"  he  exclaimed,  boldly. 


YOLANDE.  377 

But  this  was  clearly  dangerous  ground ;  and  Miss  Stewart 
sought  refuge  in  the  pages  of  Punch. 

He  had  time  to  regard  her.  He  had  never  seen  her  look  so 
well.  She  had  made  ample  use  of  the  clear  water  supplied  at 
Perth  station,  and  her  face  was  as  fresh  as  the  morning,  while 
her  pretty,  soft  light  brown  hair  was  carefully  brushed  and 
tended.  As  for  her  eyes — those  strangely  dark  blue  eyes  that 
he  could  remember  in  former  years  brimming  over  with  girlish 
merriment  or  grown  pensive  with  imaginative  dreams — he  could 
not  get  a  fair  glimpse  of  them  at  all,  for  when  she  spoke  she 
kept  them  averted  or  turned  down ;  and  at  present  she  devoted 
them  to  the  study  of  Punch.  He  began  to  regret  those  exten- 
sive purchases  at  the  station.  He  made  sure  she  was  at  this 
moment  poring  over  Mr.  Du  Maurier's  drawings — for  it  is  to 
them  that  women-folk  instinctively  turn  first ;  and  he  grew  to 
be  jealous  of  Mr.  Du  Maurier,  and  to  wish,  indeed,  that  Mr.  Du 
Maurier  had  never  been  born — a  wish,  one  may  be  certain,  then 
formulated  for  the  first  and  only  time  by  any  inhabitant  of  these 
three  countries.  Moreover,  when  she  had  finished  with  Punch, 
she  took  up  this  magazine  and  that  magazine,  and  this  journal 
and  that  journal,  the  while  answering  his  repeated  attempts  at 
conversation  in  a  very  distant  and  reserved  way,  and  clearly  in- 
timating that  she  wished  to  be  allowed  to  prosecute  her  studies. 
He  hated  the  sight  of  those  pages.  He  was  ready  to  devote  the 
whole  periodical  literature  of  liis  country  to  the  infernal  gods. 
Why,  look  now  on  this  beautiful,  shining  morning,  how  she 
ought  to  be  admirmg  those  far-stretching  Ochils  and  the  distant 
Braes  of  Donne !  Here"  were  the  wooded  banks  of  Allan  Water; 
had  these  no  romantic  associations  for  her,  no  memories  of 
broken-hearted  lovers  and  sad  stories,  and  the  like  ?  Had  she 
no  eye  for  the  wide  open  strath  they  were  now  entering,  with 
the  silver  winding  Links  of  Forth  coming  nearer  and  nearer,  and 
a  pale  blue  smoke  rising  afar  over  the  high  walls  and  ramparts 
of  Stirling  town  ?  He  verily  believed  that,  just  to  keep  away 
from  him,  and  fix  her  attention  on  something,  she  was  capable 
of  reading  Parliamentary  Debates — the  last  resort  of  the  vacant 
mind. 

But  once  they  were  away  from  Stirling  agam  he  determined 
at  all  hazards  to  startle  her  out  of  this  distressing  seclusion. 

"  Shena,"  said  he,  "  do  I  look  illT' 

She  glanced  up,  frightened. 

«  No." 

"  I  ought  to  look  ill — I  ought  to  look  unhappy  and  miserable." 
said  he,  cheerfully.     "  Don't  you  know  that  I  have  been  jilted  f 


378  YOLANDE. 

Well,  she  did  not  quite  know  what  to  say  to  that.  He  looked 
as  if  he  was  joking ;  and  yet  it  was  not  a  thing  he  was  likely  to 
mention  in  joke — and  to  her. 

"  It  is  quite  true,  I  assure  you,"  said  he,  seeing  that  she  did 
not  make  answer.  "  You  said  yoH  had  heard  I  was  going  to  be 
married.     Well,  it's  all  broken  off." 

"  I  am  very  sorry,"  said  Shena  Van,  as  in  duty  bound ;  but 
she  was  clearly  not  very  sure  as  to  how  to  take  the  news. 

"  Oh,  please  don't  waste  any  pity  on  me,"  said  he.  "  I  don't 
feel  very  miserable.  I  feel  ratber  the  other  way.  '  Ah,  freedom 
is  a  noble  thing' — you  remember  how  Barbour  used  to  puzzle 
you,  Shena?  Yes,  I  am  free  now  to  follow  out  my  own  wishes; 
and  that's  what  I  mean  to  do." 

"You  are  going  to  live  in  London,  perhaps?"  said  Miss  Stew- 
art, regarding  him,  but  not  betraying  any  keen  personal  interest. 

"  Why,  this  is  the  point  of  it,"  said  he,  with  greater  anima- 
tion, for  at  last  she  had  deigned  to  Jay  down  the  newspaper, 
"that  I  don't  in  the  least  know  where  I  am  going,  and  don't 
much  care.  I  have  determined  to  be  my  own  master,  since  my 
folk  at  home  appeared  disinclined  to  accept  the  programme  I 
had  sketched  out ;  absolutely  my  own  master.  And  now  if 
you,  Shena,  would  tell  me  something  very  fine  and  pleasant  for 
me  to  do,  that  would  be  a  kindness." 

"  In  the  mean  time,"  said  she,  with  a  slight  smile,  "  I  wish 
you  would  call  me  by  my  right  ;iame." 

"  Do  you  think  I  can  forget  the  days  when  you  were  always 
'Shena'  ?"  said  he,  with  a  sort  of  appealing  glance  that  her  eyes 
were  careful  to  avoid.  "  Don't  you  rerfiember  when  I  brought 
you  the  white  kitten  from  Inverness,  and  how  it  was  always 
pulling  its  collar  of  daisies  to  pieces  ?  Don't  you  remember  my 
getting  you  the  falcon's  wings  ?  Wliy,  I  had  to  lie  all  night 
among  the  rocks  on  Carn-nan-Gael  to  get  at  that  falcon.  And 
you  were  always  'Shena'  then."  I 

"  Because  I  was  a  child,"  said  Miss  Stewart,  with  a  slight  liusli 
on  the  pretty,  fresh-colored  face.  "  When  we  grow  up  we  put 
aside  childish  things." 

"  But  we  can't  always  forget,"  said  he. 

"Indeed,  it  seems  easy  enough  to  many,"  she  answered,  but 
■with  no  apparent  sarcasm  or  intention.  "  And  you  have  not 
fixed  when  you  are  going,  Mr.  Leslie  ?"  she  added,  with  a  cer- 
tain formality. 

"  At  the  present  moment,  to  tell  you  the  truth,'*  said  he,  "  I 
have  half  made  an  engagement  to  go  away  on  a  yachting  cruise 
with  a  young  fellow  I  know.     But  he  is  rather  an  ass.     I  am 


YOLANDE.  379 

not  looking  forward  to  it  with  any  great  pleasure.  Ah !  1  could 
imagine  another  kind  of  trip," 

She  did  not  ask  him  what  it  was.  She  seemed  more  inclined 
to  turn  over  the  title-pages  of  the  magazines. 

"  I  can  imagine  two  young  people  who  are  fond  of  each  other 
being  able  to  go  away  by  themselves  on  a  ramble  through  Italy 
— perhaps  two  young  people  who  had  been  separated,  and  meet- 
ing after  a  time,  and  inclined  to  take  their  lives  into  their  own 
hands,  and  do  with  them  what  seemed  best — leaving  friends 
and  other  considerations  aside  altogether.  And  they  might 
have  old  times  to  talk  about  as  they  sat  at  dinner — by  them- 
selves— in  a  room  at  this  or  that  hotel — perhaps  overlooking  the 
Rhine,  it  may  be,  if  they  were  still  in  Germany;  or  perhaps 
overlooking  the  Arno,  if  they  were  in  Florence.  Fancy  having 
only  the  one  companion  with  you,  to  go  through  the  galleries, 
and  see  all  the  pictures;  and  to  go  to  the  opera  with  you  in  the 
evening — just  the  one  and  only  companion  you  would  care  to 
have  with  you.     Wouldn't  that  be  a  trip?" 

"  I  dare  say,"  replied  Miss  Stewart,  coldly.  "  But  the  two 
people  would  have  to  be  pretty  much  of  one  mind." 

"  I  am  supposing  they  arc  fond  of  each  other,"  said  he,  look- 
ing at  her;  but  she  would  not  meet  his  glance. 

"  I  suppose  it  sometimes  happens,"  said  she,  taking  up  one 
of  the  magazines,  so  that  he  was  forced  to  seek  refuge  in  a 
comic  journal,  greatly  against  his  will. 

By-and-by  they  were  hurling  onward  through  the  solitudes 
where  the  youthful  Clyde  draws  its  waters  from  the  burns  that 
trickle  and  tumble  down  the  slopes  of  "Tintock  Tap."  He 
thought  it  was  not  kind  of  Shcna  V^n  to  hide  herself  away  like 
that.  Her  imagination  would  not  warm  to  any  picture  he  could 
draw — though  that  of  their  being  together  in  a  Florentine  gallery 
seemed  to  him  rather  captivating.  Perhaps  she  was  offended 
at  his  having  neglected  her  for  such  a  long  time  ?  But  she  was 
a  sensible  young  woman;  she  must  have  understood  the  reasons. 
And  now  had  he  not  intimated  to  licr  that  he  was  no  longer 
inclined  to  submit  to  the  influence  of  his  friends?  But  she  did 
not  betray  any  interest  or  curiosity. 

"  I  wonder  whether  -we  stop  at  Beattock  Junction?"  said  he. 

"I  am  sure  I  don't  know,"  she  answered,  civilly. 

"  Has  it  occurred  to  you,  Shena,"  said  he,  with  a  peculiar 
sort  of  smile,  "  that  if  any  one  who  knew  both  of  us  happened 
to  be  at  one  of  those  stations,  they  might  make  a  curious  sur- 
mise about  us  ?" 

"  I  do  not  understand  you,"  Miss  Stewart  observed. 


380  YOLANDE. 

"  Did  you  ever  hear  of  Allison's  Bank  Tollhouse  ?"  he  asked. 

"No." 

"That  was  where  they  made  the  Gretna  Green  marriages — it 
is  just  on  this  side  the  Border.  I  think  it  is  rather  a  pi-ty  the 
Gretna  Green  marriages  were  done  away  with ;  it  was  an  ef- 
fectual way  of  telling  your  friends  to  mind  their  own  business. 
^  There  was  no  trouble  about  it.  But  it  is  just  about  as  easy  now, 
!if  you  don't  mind  paying  for  a  special  license ;  and  I  do  believe 
it  is  the  best  way.  Your  friends  can  get  reconciled  to  it  after- 
ward if  they  like ;  if  they  don't  like,  they  can  do  the  other 
thing.  That  was  what  I  was  thinking,  Shena — if  some  of  our 
friends  were  to  see  us  in  this  carriage,  it  wouldn't  surprise  me 
if  they  imagined  we  were  on  a  venture  of  that  kind." 

Shena  Van  blushed  deeply,  and  was  ashamed  of  her  embar- 
rassment ;  and  said,  with  some  touch  of  anger, 

"  They  could  not  think  of  such  nonsense !" 

"It's  the  sensible  plan,  though,  after  all,"  said  he,  pertinacious 
ly,  and  yet  appearing  to  treat  the  subject  as  a  matter  of  specula^ 
tion.  Jock  o'  Hazledean,  Young  Lochinvar,  Ronald  Macdonald, 
and  the  rest  of  them,  why,  they  said,  '  Oh,  hang  it,  let's  have  no 
more  bother  about  your  friends ;  if  you  are  willing  to  cliance  it, 
so  am  I ;  let's  make  a  bolt  of  it,  and  they  can  have  their  howl 
when  they  find  out.'  And  it  answered  well  enough,  according 
to  all  accounts.  I  rather  think  there  was  a  row  about  Bonny 
Glenlyon;  but  then  the  noble  sportsman  who  carried  her  off 
carried  her  off  against  her  will;  and  that  is  a  mistake.  It's 
*  Will  ye  gang  to  the  Hielands,  Leezie  Lindsay  ?'  and  if  you  can 
persuade  her,  she  *  kilts  up  her  coats  o'  green  satin,'  and  you  lift 
her  into  the  saddle ;  but  if  she  doesn't  see  it — if  she  thinks  it  isn't 
good  enough — you  drop  the  subject." 

"  You  seem  to  have  been  reading  a  good  many  songs,"  said 
Shena  Van,  rather  coldly.  "But  people  don't  go  on  in  that  way 
in  ordinary  life." 

"  Perhaps  it  might  be  better  if  they  did  occasionally,"  said 
he.     "You  remember  Jack  Melville,  of  course?" 

"  Oh,  certainly,"  said  she,  with  some  eagerness,  for  she 
thought  he  would  now  leave  that  other  perilous  topic. 

"  Well,  I  remember  one  night,  in  my  rooms,  when  we  were 
at  Oxford  together,  he  propounded  the  theory  that  morality  is 
merely  a  system  of  laws  devised  by  the  aged  and  worn-out  for 
keeping  young  people  straight.  Of  course  it  was  only  a  joke; 
but  it  startled  the  boys  a  bit.  And  although  it  was  only  a  joke, 
mind  you,  there  was  something  in  it;  I  mean,  for  example,  that 
it  doesn't  follow,  because  you're  seventy,  you  know  what  is  best 


YOLANDE.  381 

for  a  person  of  five-and-twenty.  You  may  know  what  is  most 
prudent,  from  the  money  point  of  view  ;  but  you  don't  neces- 
sarily know  what  is  best.  You  look  with  dificrcnt  eyes.  And 
there  is  a  great  deal  too  much  of  that  going  on  nowadays." 

"  Of  what  r  she  asked,  innocently. 

"  Oh,  of  treating  life  as  if  everything  were  a  question  of 
money,"  replied  this  profound  philosopher — who  had  for  the 
moment  forgotten  all  about  Corrievreak  in  his  anxiety  to  get  a 
peep  at  Shena  Van's  unfathomable  blue  eyes. 

Miss  Stewart  now  returned  to  one  of  those  inhuman  periodi- 
cals; and  he  searched  his  wits  in  vain  for  some  subject  that 
would  draw  her  thence.  Moreover,  he  began  to  think  that  this 
train  was  going  at  a  mercilous  speed.  They  smashed  through 
Lockerbie.  They  had  scarcely  a  glimpse  of  Ecclefechan.  Kirtle- 
bridge  went  by  like  a  flash  of  lightning.  And  then  he  recol- 
lected that  very  soon  they  would  be  at  Gretna  Green. 

"  Shena,"  said  he,  eagerly — "  Shena,  have  you  been  as  far 
south  as  this  before  ?" 

"  Oh  no,"  she  answered.  "  I  have  never  been  farther  south 
than  Edinburgh  and  Glasgow.  But  Mary  Vincent  is  to  be  at 
the  station  waiting  for  me." 

'  "  I  did  not  mean  that.  Don't  you  know  that  soon  you  will 
be  at  Gretna  ?  Don't  you  know  you  will  soon  be  crossing  the 
Border?  Why,  you  should  be  interested  in  that!  It  is  your 
first  entrance  into  England.  Shall  I  tell  you  the  moment  you 
are  in  England  ?" 

"  Oh  yes,  if  you  please,"  said  Miss  Stewart,  condescending  to 
look  out  and  regard  the  not  very  picturesque  features  of  the  sur- 
rounding scenery. 

"  Well,  you  be  ready  to  see  a  lot  of  things  at  once,  for  I 
don't  know  v^'hether  you  actually  see  Gretna  Green  church ;  but 
I  will  show  you  the  little  stream  that  divides  the  two  countries 
— that  was  the  stream  the  runaway  lovers  were  so  anxious  to 
get  over.  I  am  told  they  have  extraordinary  stories  in  Gretna 
about  the  adventures  of  those  days — I  wonder  nobody  goes  and 
picks  them  up.  They  had  some  fun  in  those  days.  I  wish  I 
had  lived  then.  Modern  life  is  too  monotonous — don't  you 
think  so  ?" 

"  I  don't  know,"  said  Shena  Van,  honestly. 

"  I  mean  I  wish  I  had  lived  in  those  days  if  I  had  had  the 
chance  of  running  away  with  somebody  that  made  it  worth  the 
risk.  Shena,"  said  he,  "  supposing  you  had  lived  at  that  time, 
don't  you  tliink  you  would  rather  have  had  the  excitement  of 
that  kind  of  wedding  than  the  ordinary,  humdrum  sort  of  affair  ?" 


382  YOLANDE. 

"  I  have  never  thought  anything  about  it,"  said  Miss  Stewart 
with  some  precision — as  if  any  properly  conducted  young 
woman  would  give  a  moment's  consideration  to  the  manner  in 
wliich  she  might  M'ish  to  be  married  ! 

'■'  Look  !  look  !"  said  he,  jumping  up,  and  involuntarily  put- 
ting his  hand  on  her  arm.  "  Look,  Shena!  The  village  is  over 
there — here  is  the  river,  see  ! — it  is  tbe  Sark — and  the  bridge  is 
down  there,  to  the  left  of  that  house — that  house  is  an  inn,  the 
last  in  England  on  the  old  coach-road — " 

She  took  away  her  arm.  . 

"  Ah,"  said  he,  as  he  sat  down,  "  many  a  happy  couple  were 
glad  to  find  their  great  big  George  the  Fourth  phaeton  clatter* 
ing  over  the  bridge  there — the  triumph  after  all  the  risk — " 

Then  he  reflected  that  in  a  few  minutes'  time  they  would  be 
in  Carlisle  ;  and  this  made  him  rather  desperate ;  for  when  again 
should  he  see  Shena  Van — and  Shena  Van  alone  ? 

"Can  you  imagine  yourself  living  at  that  time,  Shena;  and 
if  I  were  to  ask  you  to  make  off  for  Gretna  with  me  and  get 
married,  what  would  you  say?" 

'*  You — you  have  no  right  to  ask  me  such  a  question,"  said 
Shena  Van,  rather  breathlessly. 

"  There  would  have  been  no  chance  of  your  saying  '  yes  '  ?" 
he  asked,  gently. 

"  I  don't  know  what  you  mean,"  said  she,  and  she  was  nerv- 
ously twisting  the  magazine  in  her  hand.  "  I — I  think  you  are 
forgetting.  You  are  forgetting  who  you  are — who  I  am — and 
everything  that — that  once  happened — I  mean,  that  nothing 
happened — for  how  could  it  ?  And  to  ask  such  a  question — 
even  in  joke — well,  I  think  you  have  no  right  to  ask  me  such  a 
question,  and  the  absurdity  of  it  is  enough  answer." 

"  I  did  not  mean  it  as  a  joke  at  all,  Shena,"  said  he,  quite 
humbly,  and  yet  trying  to  catch  sight  of  her  eyes.  "  I  asked 
you  if  you  could  imagine  other  circumstances — other  circum- 
stances  in  which  I  might  ask  you  such  a  question.  Of  course, 
I  am  very  sorry  if  I  have  offended  you — " 

"  I  think  there  Ijas  been  enough  said,"  said  Miss  Stewart^ 
quietly,  and  indeed  with  a  good  deal  of  natural  dignity. 

Just  before  they  were  going  into  Carlisle  station,  she  said: 

"  I  hope,  Mr.  Leslie,  you  won't  misunderstand  me,  but — but, 
of  course  Miss  Vincent  and  her  friends  won't  know  who  you 
are,  and  I  would  rather  they  did  not  know.  There  is  always 
silly  talk  going  on;  it  begins  in  amusement,  and  then  people 
repeat  it  and  believe  it." 

"  I  shall   be   quite  a  stranger  to  you  ^Yhcn  we  get  into  the 


YOLANDE.  383 

station,"  said  he.  "  And  in  the  mean  time  I  will  say  good-by 
to  you ;  and  you  must  tell  me  that  we  part  good  friends, 
although  you  do  seem  to  care  so  little  about  those  by-gone  davs, 
Shcna." 

"Good-by,"  said  she,  holding  out  her  hand  (but  with  her 
eyes  cast  down).  "  And  perhaps  I  care  for  them  as  much  as  I 
ought ;  but  one  acquires  a  little  common-sense  as  one  grows  up. 
I  hope  you  will  have  a  pleasant  trip  in  the  yacht,  Mr.  Leslie." 

At  the  station  he  got  out  first,  and  assisted  her  to  alight; 
then  he  got  a  porter  for  her,  and  raised  his  hat  to  her  with  the 
air  of  a  perfect  stranger,  as  she  disappeared  with  her  friends. 
Then  he  had  his  own  things  shifted  into  a  first-class  smoking 
compartment,  and  the  journey  was  resumed. 

It  was  a  lonely  journey.  There  was  something  wrong.  Ho 
already  hated  the  Juliet^  and  looked  forward  with  disgu.st  to 
being  tlirown  on  the  society  of  a  brainless  young  idiot.  Nay, 
this  was  the  matter:  why  had  he  not  asked  Janet  Stewart  plump 
and  plain?  Why  had  he  not  asked  her  to  stop  at  Carstairs 
Junction,  and  go  back  with  him  to  Edinburgh  or  Glasgow, 
where  he  could  easily  have  found  friends  to  take  care  of  her 
until  the  special  license  had  been  obtained  ?  Why  had  he  not 
dared  his  fate  ?  Sometimes  women  were  captured  by  the  very 
suddenness  of  the  proposal. 

"  And  as  for  the  people  at  Lynn,"  he  was  saying  to  himself 
during  these  perturbed  meditations,  "why,  then  they  might 
have  had  some  good  occasion  to  squawk.  They  might  have 
squawked  to  some  good  purpose  then.  But  I  missed  my  chance 
— if  ever  there  was  one,  and  now  it  is  this  accursed  yacht  and 
that  insufferable  young  nincompoop  !" 

Things  did  not  look  altogether  serene  for  the  Right  Honor- 
able Lord  Dartown  of  Dartown,  County  Limerick,  and  Ashwood 
Manor,  Berks. 


CHAPTER  XLYL 

A    SPY. 


It  is  quite  impossible  to  describe  the  gladness  and  gratitude 
with  which  Yolande  read  the  letter  from  the  Master  of  Lynn, 
which  not  only  gave  her  her  freedom,  but  said  good-by  in  such 
a  friendly  fashion.  For  once  a  ray  of  sunlight  fell  on  a  life 
which  of  late  had  not  been  of  the  brio^htest. 


384  YOLANDE. 

"  Yolande,  what  is  tlie  matter?  You  have  had  good  news 
this  morning?"  said  the  mother,  coming  into  the  room,  and 
noticing  the  radiant  face  of  the  girl. 

''Yes,  indeed,  mother — the  best  I  have  had  for  many  a  day," 
said  she,  and  she  led  her  mother  to  the  window,  and  put  her  in 
the  easy-chair,  and  patted  her  shoulder  affectionately.  "  The 
best  news  I  have  had  for  many  a  day." 

"  What  is  it  ?     May  I  ask  ?" 

For  an  instant  Yolande  hesitated ;  then  she  laughed,  and  put 
the  letter  in  her  pocket. 

"  No ;  it  would  be  too  long  to  explain.  But  shortly  1  will 
tell  you  what  it  is,  mother — why,  only  that  one  of  the  friends 
I  know  in  the  Highlands  has  been  generous  and  kind  to  me. 
Is  it  a  wonderful  thing?  •  Is  it  new — unexpected?" 

"Ah,  you  ought  to  be  with  them,  Yolande:  not  here,  throw- 
ing away  your  time  on  me." 

"Ridiculous!  ridiculous!"  said  she,  in  her  French  v/ay,  and 
then  with  a  light  step  and  a  bright  face  she  went  off  to  get 
writing  materials. 

"  Dear  Archie  "  (she  wrote), — "  It  is  so  good  of  you.  I  do 
not  deserve  it.  You  have  made  me  very  happy;  and  I  hope 
you  also  will  soon  be  reconciled  at  home,  and  everything  go 
well.  It  is  a  great  pleasure  you  offer  me  that  we  should  al- 
ways continue  friends,  and  I  hope  it  will  be  so ;  I  know  it  will 
on  my  side;  and  one  may  be  in  Inverness  some  day,  perhaps? 
— then  I  should  be  pleased  to  see  you  again,  and  also  your 
sister,  and  Colonel  Graham.  But  that  will  be  a  long  time,  if  at 
all;  for  my  mother,  though  she  is  much  better,  does  not  get 
strong  as  I  wish,  and  naturally  I  remain  with  her — perhaps  for 
always.  How  could  I  leave  her?  But  if  once  she  were  strong 
enough  to  travel,  then  one  might  perhaps  see  one's  friends,  in 
the  Highlands  or  elsewhere ;  and  in  the  mean  time  it  is  conso- 
lation to  know  that  they  remain  your  friends,  and  think  of  you 
occasionally.  Dear  Archie,  you  are  really  too  kind  to  me,  and 
too  flattering  also;  but  you  can  not  expect  a  woman  to  fight 
very  hard  against  that,  so  I  am  glad  you  will  have  as  generous 
an  opinion  of  me  as  is  possible,  even  if  it  is  exaggerated,  and 
perhaps  not  quite  true.  I  remember  your  speaking  of  year 
school-fellow  very  well — is  he  the  most  favorable  of  companions 
for  a  yachting  voyage?  I  suppose  you  are  going  south,  for  now 
the  days  are  becoming  cold,  and  we  are  thinking  of  going  away 
to  the  south  also.  How  strange  it  would  be  if  my  mother  and 
I  were  to  be  seated  on  one  of  the  terraces  at  Monte  Carlo,  and 


YOLANDE,  385 

you  were  to  come  sailing  into  the  harbor  below  us!  You  must 
tell  me  the  name  of  the  yacht ;  and  when  we  are  at  Nice  or 
Cannes,  or  such  places,  I  will  look  in  the  newspapers  for  the 
lists,  and  perhaps  hear  of  you. 

"  This  is  all  I  can  write  to  you  at  the  moment,  but  you  must 
believe  me  that  it  does  not  convey  to  you  anything  like  what  I 
feel.  You  will  excuse  me — perhaps  you  will  understand.  But 
I  will  not  forget  your  kindness. 

"  Your  grateful  Yolande. 

"  P.S. — I  will  do  as  you  wish  about  not  stating  any  reasons, 
though  I  am  afraid  that  is  only  another  part  of  your  con- 
sideration and  generosity  in  disguise." 

She  went  to  get  her  hat  and  cloak. 

*'  Taistoi,  mon  gas, 
Et  ne  ris  pas, 
Tout  va  de  mal  en  pire," 

she  was  humming  to  herself,  most  inappropriately,  as  she  put 
them  on.     And  then  she  went  back  to  her  mother. 

"  Will  you  get  ready,  mother  ?  I  have  a  letter  to  post.  And 
I  want  to  see  if  they  can  get  me  as  much  more  of  that  fur  as  will 
make  a  hood  for  a  travelling  cloak — ah,  you  have  no  idea  how 
comfortable  it  is  if  the  weather  is  cold,  and  you  are  on  a  long 
railway  journey." 

"  Why,  you  spoil  me,  Yolande — you  make  a  petted  child  of 
me,"  the  mother  protested. 

"  Come,  get  on  your  things,"  said  she,  not  heeding.  "  And 
perhaps  when  we  are  seeking  for  the  fur  I  might  get  a  winter 
cloak  for  Jane.  Does  she  not  deserve  a  little  present?  She  has 
been  very  attentive — has  she  not,  do  you  think  ?" 

"  When  she  has  had  the  chance,  Yolande,"  the  mother  said, 
with  a  smile.     "  But  you  do  everything  yourself,  child." 

The  alteration  in  the  girl's  manner  after  the  receipt  of  that 
letter  was  most  marked.  Gladness  dwelt  in  her  eyes,  and  spoke 
in  her  voice.  She  grew  so  hopeful,  too,  about  her  mother's 
health  that  now,  when  they  went  out  for  a  morning  stroll  among 
the  shops,  she  would  buy  this  or  the  other  small  article  likely  to  be 
of  use  to  them  in  travelling.  That  was  partly  why  she  presented 
Jane  with  that  winter  cloak;  Jane  was  to  be  their  sole  attend- 
ant. And  now  all  her  talk  was  about  orange  groves  and  palms, 
and  marble  terraces  shaded  from  the  sun,  and  the  summer-blue 
waters  of  the  south. 

But  there  was  one  person  who  certainly  did  not  regard  tlje 


386  YOLANDE. 

breaking  off  of  this  engagement  witli  equatiimity.  Immediately 
on  receiving  the  brief  note  sent  from  the  Station  Hotel  at  Inver- 
ness, Mrs.  Graham,  astonished  and  indignant  and  angry,  posted 
over  straightway  to  Lynn,  and  told  her  tale,  and  demanded  ex- 
planations. Well,  they  had  no  explanations  to  offer.  If  it 
were  true,  Lord  Lynn  said,  indifferently,  it  was  a  very  good 
thing ;  but  he  did  not  choose  to  bother  his  head  about  it.  Then 
pretty  Mrs.  Graham  had  a  few  words,  verging  on  warmth,  with 
]ier  Aunt  Colquhoun ;  but  she  quickly  saw  that  that  would  not 
lucnd  matters.  Thereupon  she  thought  she  would  appeal  to 
Yolande  herself;  and  she  did  so — dating  the  letter  from  Lynn 
Towers. 

"  My  dear  Yolande"  (she  said), — "  Is  it  true  ?  Or  has 
Archie  been  making  a  fool  of  us?  Of  course  he  is  off  without 
a  word  of  explanation,  and  I  can  not  imagine  it  possible  tha/*;  his 
and  your  engagement  should  have  been  so  suddenly  broken  off, 
and  without  any  apparent  cause.  Forgive  me  for  interfering, 
dearest  Yolande ;  I  know  it  is  no  concern  of  mine,  except  in  so 
far  as  this  goes,  that  Archie  is  my  brother,  and  I  have  a  right 
to  know  whether  he  acted  as  he  should  have  done,  and  as  be- 
comes the  honor  of  our  family.  I  have  a  right  to  know  that. 
At  the  same  time  it  seems  incredible  that  you  and  he  should  have 
parted — and  so  suddenly — without  any  warning;  for  although 
there  was  some  disagreement  here,  as  he  probably  hinted  to  you, 
still  that  could  have  nothing  to  do  with  him  and  you  ultimately, 
and  he  distinctly  informed  me  that  his  position  with  regard  to 
you  was  not  affected,  and  would  not  be  affected,  by  anything 
happening  here.  I  hope  I  am  not  giving  you  pain  in  making 
these  inquiries,  dear  Yolande  ;  but  I  think  I  have  a  right  to  know 
that  my  brother  conducted  himself  honorably  ;  for  it  was  through 
us,  you  may  remember,  that  he  made  your  acquaintance,  and 
Iboth  Jim  and  I  would  consider  ourselves  in  a  meagre  responsi- 
ble if  he  has  behaved  badly.  But  I  dare  say  it  is  not  so  serimis 
as  that.  I  know  he  is  impatient  of  worry,  and  probably  he  has 
asked  you  to — well,  I  don't  know  what  he  could  fairly  ask;  and 
all  I  can  say  is  that  I  hope,  if  matters  are  as  he  says,  that  he  has 
done  nothing  to  cause  us  reproach.  You  may  well  think  that  we 
shall  both — I  mean  Jim  and  I — be  exceedingly  grieved  if  it  is 
true,  for  we  both  looked  forward  to  having  you  as  our  sister  and 
friend,  and  you  may  depend  on  it  that  if  there  had  been  any 
temporary  disagreement  in  one  quarter,  that  would  have  been 
more  than  atoned  for  in  the  warmth  of  the  welcome  you  would 
have  got  from  us.     Pray  forgive  me,  dearest  Yolande,  for  beg- 


YOLANDE.  387 

ging  a  line  from  you  at  your  very  earliest  convenience ;  it  is  not 
idle  curiosity,  and  I  trust  your  answer  will  be  that  Archie's  ex- 
aggeration only  means  that  for  a  while  he  is  Jeaving  you  to  the 
duties  that  now  occupy  you,  and  that  in  time  everything  will  be 
as  it  was.  My  best  love  to  you,  dearest  Yolande,  from  your 
affectionate  friend,  Mary  Graham. 

<'  P.S. — Surely  it  cannot  be  true,  or  your  father  would  have 
told  me  on  the  day  of  his  leaving  AUnam-ba?  Will  you  please 
write  to  Inverstroy  T 

Yolande  remembered  her  promise  to  the  Master  of  Lynn,  and 
deemed  it  safest  to  say  as  little  as  possible.  So  she  merely 
wrote : 

"  My  dear  Mary, — I  hasten  at  once  to  say  that  your  broth- 
er's conduct  has  been  always  and  throughout  most  honorable, 
and  that  in  the  breaking  off  of  our  engagement  it  has  been  even 
more — it  has  been  most  manly  fmd  generous.  Pray  have  no 
fears  on  that  head.  As  for  the  reasons,  it  is  scarcely  worth 
while  explaining  them,  when  it  is  all  over  and  gone  now.  Do 
you  think  you  need  tell  me  that  you  would  have  given  me  wel- 
come in  the  Highlands? — indeed,  I  have  had  experience  of  that 
already.  I  hope  still  to  be  your  friend,  and  perhaps  some  day, 
in  the  Highlands  or  elsewhere,  we  may  be  once  more  together. 
In  the  mean  time  please  remember  me  most  kindly  to  your  hus- 
band, and  believe  me,  yours  affectionately, 

"  Yolande  Winterbourne." 

Yolande  now  seemed  to  consider  that  episode  in  her  life  as 
over  and  done  with,  and  set  herself  all  the  more  assiduously  to 
the  service  of  her  mother,  who,  poor  woman !  though  she  could 
not  fail  to  see  the  greater  cheerfulness  and  content  of  the  girl, 
and  probably  herself  derived  some  favorable  influence  from  that, 
still  remained  in  a  weak  and  invalidish  condition  which  prevent- 
ed their  migration  to  the  south.  However,  something  now  oc- 
curred which  stopped,  once  and  for  all,  her  recurrent  entreaties 
that  Yolande  should  go  away  to  her  OAvn  friends  and  leave  her 
by  herself.  One  day,  as  she  was  seated  in  her  accustomed  easy- 
chair,  looking  at  the  people  and  the  sea  and  the  ships,  she  sud- 
denly uttered  a  slight  exclamation,  and  then  quickly  rose  and 
withdrew  from  the  window. 

"  Yolande  dear  !"  she  exclaimed,  in  a  voice  of  terror — *'  Yo- 
lande !" 

"  Yes,  mother,"  the  girl  answered,  looking  calmly  up  from  her 
sew  in  o;. 


388  YOLANDE. 

And  then  she  saw  that  her  mother  was  strangely  agitated,  and 
instantly  she  rose  and  caught  her  by  the  hand. 

"  What  is  it,  mother  ?" 

"  I  have  seen  that  man  that  you  know  of — Romford." 

"  Well,  what  of  that?"  the  girl  said,  quietly. 

*'  But  he  was  looking  up  at  the  house,  Yolande,"  said  she,  ob- 
viously in  great  alarm.  "  He  must  know  that  we  are  here.  He 
must  have  sought  us  out." 

"Very  well,  and  what  of  that?"  said  Yolande.  And  she 
added,  with  a  gentle  touch  of  scorn :  "  Does  he  wish  to  be  asked 
to  have  some  tea  with  us  ?    I  think  we  are  not  at  home  just  now." 

*'  But  you  don't  understand,  child — you  don't  understand," 
said  the  mother,  with  a  kind  of  shiver.  "  To  see  him  was  to 
recall  everything.  I  was  in  a  dream,  and  now  it  looks  hideous 
to  me ;  and  the  thought  of  his  coming  here,  and  wishing  to  take 
me  back  to  that  life,  when  I  did  not  care  whether  each  day  was 
to  be  the  last — " 

"  My  dear  mother,"  said  Yolande,  "  is  it  of  much  consequence 
what  the  gentleman  wishes?  It  is  of  more  consequence  what  I 
wish;  and  that  is  that  you  are  to  remain  with  me." 

"  Oh  yes,  with  you,  Yolande,  with  you !"  she  exclaimed,  and 
she  eagerly  caught  both  hands  of  the  girl  and  held  them  tight. 
"  Always  with  you — always,  always  !  I  am  not  going  away 
from  you — I  dare  not  go  away.  I  have  asked  you  to  go  to  your 
friends,  and  leave  mc  by  myself;  but  I  will  not  ask  it  again;  I 
am  afraid ;  if  I  were  alone,  he  might  come  and  speak  to  me — 
and — and  persuade  me  that  his  wife  was  the  one  who  best  knew 
how  to  take  care  of  me.  Oh,  when  I  think  of  it,  Yolande,  it 
maddens  me !" 

"Then  you  need  not  think  of  it,  mother  dear,"  said  the  girl, 
pressing  her  to  sit  down.  "Leave  Mr.  Romford  to  me.  Oh,  I 
will  make  him  content  with  mc,  if  he  chooses  to  be  troublesome. 
Do  not  fear." 

"  If  he  should  come  to  the  house,  Yolande  ?" 

"The  ladies  do  not  receive  this  afternoon,"  she  answered, 
promptly,  "  nor  to-Tnorrow  afternoon,  nor  the  next  day  morning, 
nor  any  other  time,  when  the  gentleman  calls  whom  you  will  de- 
scribe to  the  landlady  and  her  two  girls,  and  also  to  Jane.  As 
for  me,  I  scarcely  saw  him — I  was  too  bewildered,  and  too 
anxious  about  you,  mother,  and  then  at  last,  when  he  did  come 
near  to  me,  pouf !  away  he  went  on  the  pavement  And  as  for 
him  now,  I  do  not  care  for  him  that  .^"  and  she  flicked  her  mid- 
dle finger  from  the  tip  of  her  thumb. 

"  But  he  may  speak  to  us  on  the  street,  child !" 


YOLANDE.  389 

"  And  if  we  do  not  wish  to  be  spoken  to,  is  there  ilo  protec- 
tion V  said  Yolande,  proudly.  "  Come  to  the  window,  mother, 
and  I  will  show  you  something-." 

"  Oh,  no,  no !"  she  said,  shrinking  back. 

"  Very  well,  then,  I  will  tell  you.  Do  you  not  know  the  good- 
natured  policeman  who  told  us  when  the  harness  was  wrong  at 
the  shaft,  and  put  it  right  for  us?  And  if  we  say  to  him  that 
we  do  not  wish  to  have  any  of  the  gentleman's  conversation,  is 
it  not  enough?" 

"  I  do  not  think  I  could  go  back  now,"  the  mother  said,  ab- 
sently, as  if  she  were  looking  over  the  life,  or  rather  the  living 
death,  she  had  led.  "  I  have  seen  you.  I  could  not  go  back 
and  forget  you ;  and  be  a  trouble  to  you,  and  to  your  father. 
He  must  be  a  forgiving  man  to  have  let^you  come  to  me  ;  and  yet 
not  wise.  I  was  content ;  and  those  people  were  kind  to  me. 
Why  should  your  life  be  sacrificed  ?" 

"  What  a  dreadful  sacrifice,  then  !"  exclaimed  Yolande,  with 
a  smile.  "  Look  around — it  is  a  dreadful  sacrifice  !  And  when 
we  are  at  Cannes,  and  at  San  liemo,  and  at  Bordighera,  it  will 
be  even  more  horrible  and  dreadful." 

"But  no,  no,  I  can  not  go  back  now,"  she  said.  "The  sight 
of  that  man  recalls  everything  to  me.  And  yet  they  were  kind 
to  me.  I  could  do  as  I  pleased ;  and  it  was  all  in  a  kind  of 
dream.  I  seemed  to  be  walking  through  the  aight  always. 
And  indeed  I  did  not  like  the  daytime — I  liked  to  be  in  my 
own  room  alone  in  the  evening,  with  newspapers  and  books — 
and  it  was  a  kind  of  half-sleep  with  waking  pictures — sometimes 
of  you,  Yolande — very  often  of  you ;  but  not  as  you  are  now-v  - 
and  then  they  would  come  and  torture  me  with  telling  me  hov 
badly  I  was  treated  in  not  being  allowed  to  see  you — and  then — 
then  I  did  not  know  what  I  did.     It  is  terrible  to  think  of." 

"  Don't  think  of  it,  mother,  then." 

"It  is  all  before  me  again,"  the  wretched  woman  said,  with  a 
kind  of  despair.  "  I  see  what  I  have  been,  and  what  people 
have  thought  of  me.  How  can  I  raise  myself  again  ?  It  is  no 
use  trying.  My  husband  away  from  me,  my  friends  ashamed  to 
speak  of  me,  my  child  throwing  away  her  young  life  to  no  end 
— why  should  I  try  ? — I  should  be  better  away — anywhere — to 
hide  myself,  and  be  no  longer  an  injury  and  a  shame." 

"Mother,"  said  Yolande,  firmly  (for  she  had  had  to  fight 
those  fits  of  hopelessness  before,  and  knew  the  way  of  them  well), 
"  don't  talk  nonsense.  I  have  undertaken  to  make  you  well,  and 
I  have  very  nearly  succeeded,  and  I  am  not  going  to  have  my 
patient  break  down  on  mv  hands,  and  people  say  I  am  a  bad 


390  YOLANDE. 

doctor.  I  wonder  what  you  would  have  said  if  I  had  called  in 
a  real  doctor,  to  give  you  physic  and  all  the  rest  of  it,  whereas 
I  get  all  kinds  of  nice  things  for  you,  and  take  you  out  for  drives 
and  walks,  and  never  a  word  of  medicine  mentioned.  And  I 
don't  think  it  is  fair,  when  you  are  getting  on  so  well,  to  let 
yourself  drop  into  a  fit  of  despondency,  for  that  will  only  make 
you  worse,  and  give  me  so  much  longer  trouble  before  I  have 
you  pulled  through.  For  you  are  not  going  to  shake  me  off- 
no,  not  at  all — and  the  sooner  you  are  well,  the  sooner  we  are 
off  to  France  and  Italy,  and  the  longer  you  are  not  well,  the 
longer  it  is  you  keep  me  in  Worthing,  which  perhaps  you  will 
not  find  so  cheerful  when  the  winter  comes.  Already  it  is  cold; 
some  morning  when  you  get  up  you  will  see — what?  nothing  but 
snow ! — everything  white^and  then  you  will  say  it  is  time  to  fly, 
and  that  is  right,  but  why  not  sooner?" 

"Well,  to  be  beside  you,  Yolande,"  said  the  mother,  stroking 
the  girl's  hand,  "  is  what  I  live  for.  If  it  were  not  for  that,  I 
should  not  care  what  happened." 

Yolande  professed  to  treat  this  Mr.  Romford  as  a  person  of 
little  account;  but  she  was  in  her  inmost  heart  a  trifle  more  dis- 
quieted than  outwardly  she  made  believe.  She  shrewdly  sus- 
pected that  he  was  not  the  sort  of  gentleman  to  be  disporting 
himself  at  a  watering-place  merely  for  amusement;  and  she  made 
no  doubt  that,  somehow  or  other,  he  had  found  out  their  address, 
and  had  followed  them  hither  in  the  hope  of  getting  her  mother 
once  more  under  his  control.  As  to  that,  she  had  no  fear ;  but, 
to  make  sure  that  he  had  no  monetary  or  other  claim  that 
could  warrant  his  even  knocking  at  the  door  of  the  house,  she 
resolved  to  write  at  once  to  Lawrence  &  Lang.  The  answer  was 
prompt;  she  got  it  by  the  first  post  next  morning;  and  it  said 
that  as  "  our  Mr.  Lang,"  by  a  fortunate  accident,  happened  to  be 
at  the  moment  in  Brighton,  they  had  telegraphed  to  him  to  go 
along  and  see  her ;  consequently  Miss  Winterbourne  might  expect 
him  to  call  on  her  during  the  course  of  the  day. 

This  was  far  from  being  in  accordance  with  Yolande's  wish ; 
but  she  could  not  now  help  it ;  and  so  she  went  to  her  mother, 
and  said  that  a  gentleman  would  probably  call  that  day  with 
whom  she  wanted  to  have  a  few  minutes'  private  talk ;  and 
would  the  mother  kindly  remain  in  her  room  for  that  time? 

"  Not — not  Romford  ?"  said  she,  in  alarm. 

"  I  said  a  gentleman,  mother,"  Yolande  answered. 

And  then  a  strange  kind  of  glad  light  came  into  the  mother's 
face ;  and  she  took  her  daughter's  hands  in  hers. 

"  Can  it  be,  then,  Yolande  ?     There  is  one  who  is  dear  to  you  ?" 


YOLANDE.  391 

The  girl  turned  very  pale  for  a  second  or  so ;  but  she  forced 
herself  to  laugh. 

"Nonsense,  mother.  The  gentleman  is  calling  on  business. 
It  is  very  inconvenient;  but  the  firm  told  him  to  come  along 
from  Brighton  ;  and  now  I  can't  prevent  him." 

"  I  had  hoped  it  was  something  more,"  said  the  mother,  gen- 
tly, as  she  turned  to  her  book  again. 

Mr.  Lang  called  about  half-past  twelve. 

"I  am  very  sorry  you  should  have  taken  so  much  trouble 
about  so  small  an  affair,"  said  Yolande. 

"  But  you  must  understand,  Miss  Winterboume,"  said  the  tall, 
white-haired  man,  with  the  humorous  smile  and  good-natured 
eyes,  "that  our  firm  are  under  the  strictest  injunctions  to  pay 
instant  heed  to  the  smallest  things  you  ask  of  us.  You  have  no 
idea  how  we  have  been  lectured  and  admonished.  But  I  grant 
you  this  is  nothing.  The  man  is  a  worthless  fellow,  who  is 
probably  disappointed,  and  he  may  hang  about,  but  you  have 
nothing  to  fear  from  him.  Everything  has  been  paid;  we  have  a 
formal  acquittance.  I  dare  say  the  scoundrel  got  three  times 
what  was  really  owing  to  him,  but  it  was  not  a  prodigious  sum. 
}j[ow  what  do  you  want  me  to  do?  I  can't  prosecute  him  for 
being  in  Worthing." 

"  No ;  but  what  am  /  to  do  if  he  persists  in  speaking  to  my 
mother  when  we  are  out  walking  ?" 

"  Give  him  in  charge.  He'll  depart  quick  enough.  But  I 
should  say  you  had  little  to  fear  in  that  direction.  Unless  he 
has  a  chance  of  speaking  to  your  mother  alone,  he  is  not  likely 
to  attempt  it  at  all." 

"  And  that  he  shall  not  have ;  I  can  take  care  of  that,"  said 
Yolande,  with  decision. 

"  You  really  need  not  trouble  about  it.  Of  course  if  he 
found  your  mother  in  the  hands  of  a  stranger,  what  happened 
before  might  happen  now  ;  that  is  to  say,  he  would  go  and  try 
to  talk  her  over ;  would  say  that  she  was  never  so  happy  as 
when  he  and  his  wife  were  waiting  on  her,  that  they  were  her 
real  friends,  and  all  that  stuff.  But  I  don't  think  he  will  tackle 
you,"  he  added,  with  a  friendly  sort  of  smile. 

"  He  shall  not  find  my  mother  alone,"  said  Yolande. 

"  I  hear  everything  is  going  on  well  ?"  he  ventured  to  say. 

"  I  hope  so — I  think  so,"  she  answered. 

"  It  was  risky — I  may  say,  it  was  a  courageous  thing  for  you 
to  do,  but  you  had  warm  friends  looking  on." 

She  started  and  looked  up,  but  he  proceeded  to  something 
else. 


YOLANDE. 

"  I  suppose  I  may  not  see  Mrs.  Winterbourne — or  may  I  ?" 

"I  think  not,"  said  Yolande.  "It  would  only  alarm  her,  or 
at  least  excite  her,  and  I  am  keeping  all  excitement  away  from 
her.  And  if  you  will  excuse  me,  Mr.  Lang,  I  will  not  keep 
her  waiting.  It  is  so  kind  of  you  to  have  come  along  from 
Brighton." 

"  I  dare  not  disobey  such  very  strict  orders,"  said  he,  with  a 
smile,  as  he  took  up  his  hat  and  opened  the  door. 

She  did  not  ring  the  bell,  however,  for  the  maid-servant ;  she 
said  she  would  herself  see  him  out,  and  she  followed  him  down- 
stairs.    In  the  passage  she  said  : 

"  I  want  you  to  tell  me  something,  Mr.  Lang.  I  want  you 
to  tell  me  who  it  was  who  explained  to  you  what  you  were  to 
do  for  me  when  I  arrived  in  London,  for  I  think  I  know." 

"  Then  there  can  be  no  harm  in  telling  you,  my  dear  young 
lady.  He  called  again  on  us,  about  a  couple  of  weeks  ago,  on 
his  way  north,  and  laid  us  under  more  stringent  orders  than 
ever.     Mr.  John  Melville.     Was  that  your  guess  ?" 

"  Yes,"  said  Yolande,  with  her  eyes  downcast,  but  in  per- 
fectly calm  tones.  "  I  thought  it  was  he.  I  suppose  he  was 
quite  well  when  you  saw  him  ?" 

"Oh  yes,  apparently — certainly." 

''  Good-by,  Mr.  Lang.  It  is  so  kind  of  you  to  have  taken  all 
this  trouble." 

"  Good-morning,"  said  Mr.  Lang,  as  he  opened  the  door  and 
went  his  way.     And  he  also  had  his  guess. 


CHAPTER  XLVIL 


NOW     AN  DSUN  LIGHT. 


Yolande,  however,  was  a  strict  and  faithful  guardian ;  and 
Mr.  Romford,  no  doubt  iBnding  it  impossible  to  get  speech  of 
her  mother  alone,  had  probably  left  the  place,  for  they  saw  no 
more  of  him.  -  Indeed,  they  were  thinking  of  other  matters. 
Yolande  was  anxious  to  get  away  to  the  south,  and  yet  afraid  to 
risk  the  fatigue  of  travelling  on  a  system  obviously  so  frail  as 
her  mother's  was.  She  kept  lingering  on  and  on  in  the  hope  of 
seeing  some  improvement  taking  place,  but  her  mother,  though 
much  more  cheerful  in  spirits,  did  not  seem  to  gain  in  strength ; 
indeed,  she  seemed  physically  so  weak  that  again  'and  again 


YOLANDE.  393 

Yolande  postponed  their  departure.  Tins  also  had  its  draw- 
backs, for  the  weather  was  becoming  more  and  more  wintry, 
and  out-of-door  exercise  was  being  restricted.  It  was  too  cold 
for  driving ;  Yolande  had  sent  back  the  pony-carriage.  Then 
she  dared  not  expose  her  mother  to  northerly  or  easterly  winds. 
Frequently  now  she  liad  to  go  out  for  her  morning  walk  by 
herself,  a  brisk  promenade  once  or  twice  up  and  down  the  pier 
being  enough  to  send  her  home  with  pink  cheeks.  At  last  she 
said  to  her  mother,  with  some  timidity, 

"  I  have  been  thinking,  mother,  that  we  might  take  some 
one's  advice  as  to  whether  you  are  strong  enough  to  bear  the 
journey." 

"  i  think  I  could  go,"  the  mother  said.  "  Oh  yes,  I  should 
like  to  try,  Yolande,  for  you  seem  so  anxious  about  it,  and  of 
course  Worthing  must  be  dull  for  you." 

The  girl  did  not  mind  this  reference  to  herself. 

"  I  have  been  thinking  how  it  could  be  most  easily  done, 
mother.  I  would  get  a  carriage  here,  and  have  you  nicely 
wrapped  up  from  the  cold,  and  we  should  drive  to  Newhaven ; 
that  would  be  more  comfortable  than  the  tedious  railway 
journey  round  by  Lewes.  Then  we  should  choose  our  own 
time  of  crossing  when  the  sea  was  calm  ;  and  the  railway  journey 
from  Dieppe  to  Paris  is  so  much  shorter  than  the  Calais  route. 
But  to  Marseilles — that  is  a  terrible  long  journey." 

"  I  think  I  could  do  it,  Yolande ;  I  see  you  are  so  anxious  to 
get  away — and  no  wonder." 

"  I  am  anxious  for  your  sake,  mother.  But  I  am  afraid  to 
take  the  responsibility.  Would  you  mind  my  asking  some  one  ? 
Would  you  mind  my  taking  some  advice  ?" 

"  But  you  are  the  best  doctor  I  have  ever  had,"  said  the 
mother,  with  a  smile.  "  I  would  rather  take  your  advice  than 
any  one's." 

"  But  I  am  afraid,  mother,"  she  said.  And  then  she  added, 
cautiously,  "  It  was  not  the  advice  of  a  doctor  I  was  thinking  of." 

"Whose,  then?" 

The  girl  went  and  stood  by  her  mother's  side,  and  put  hei 
hand  gently  on  her  shoulder. 

"  Mother,  my  father  is  fretting  that  he  can  be  of  no  service  to 
us." 

"  Oh,  no,  no,  no,  Yolande !"  the  other  cried,  with  a  sudden 
terror.  "  Don't  think  of  it,  Yolande — it  would  kill  me — he  will 
never  forgive  me." 

"  There  is  no  forgiveness  needed,  mother ;  all  that  is  over  and 
forgotten.     Mother — " 


394  YOLANDE. 

But  the  mere  mention  of  this  proposal  seemed  to  have  driven 
the  poor  woman  into  a  kind  of  frenzy.  She  chmgto  her  daugh- 
ter's arm,  and  said  in  a  wild  sort  of  way, 

"  If  I  saw  him,  Yolande,  I  should  think  he  was  coming  to  take 
you  away  from  me — to  take  you  away  from  me  !  It  would  be 
the  old  days  come  back  again — and — and  the  lawyers — " 

She  was  all  trembling  now,  and  clinging  to  the  girl's  arm. 

"Stay  with  me,  Yolande;  stay  with  me.  I  know  I  have  done 
great  harm  and  injury,  and  I  can  not  ask  him  to  forgive  me;  but 
you — I  have  not  harmed  you ;  I  can  look  into  your  face  with- 
out reproach." 

"I  will  stay  with  you,  mother;  don't  be  afraid.  Now  pray 
calm  yourself ;  I  won't  speak  of  that  again,  if  it  troubles  you ; 
we  shall  be  just  by  our  two  selves  for  as  long  as  ever  you  like ; 
and  as  for  lawyers,  and  doctors,  or  anybody  else,  why,  you  shall 
not  be  allowed  to  know  that  they  exist." 

So  she  gradually  got  her  mother  calmed  again ;  and  by-and- 
by,  when  she  got  the  opportunity,  she  sat  down  and  wrote  to 
her  father,  saying  that  at  present  it  was  impossible  be  should 
come  and  see  them,  for  that  the  mere  suggestion  of  such  a 
thing  had  violently  alarmed  and  excited  her  mother,  and  that 
excitement  of  any  kind  did  her  most  serious  mischief.  She 
added  that  she  feared  she  would  have  to  take  on  her  own  shoub 
ders  the  responsibility  of  deciding  whether  they  should  attempt 
the  journey ;  that  most  likely  they  would  try  to  proceed  by 
short  stages;  and  that,  in  that  case,  she  would  write  to  him  again 
for  directions  as  to  where  they  should  go  on  ariiving  in  Paris. 

That,  indeed,  was  what  it  came  to  ;  althongh  the  girl  naturally 
wished  to  share  with  some  qualified  person  the  responsibility  of 
the  decision.  But  now,  as  heretofore,  whenever  she  hinted  that 
they  ought  to  call  in  a  skilled  physician,  merely  for  a  consultation, 
the  mother  betrayed  such  a  nervous  horror  oJF  the  idea  of  seeing 
any  stranger  that  the  proposal  had  to  be  dropped. 

"Why,  Yolande,  why?"  she  would  say.  "I  am  well  enough 
— only  a  little  weak.  I  shall  be  stronger  by-and-by.  What 
could  you  ask  of  a  doctor  ?" 

"  Oh,  well,  mother,"  the  girl  said,  rather  vaguely,  "  one  might 
leave  it  to  himself  to  make  suggestions.  Perhaps  he  might  be 
of  some  help — who  knows  ?  There  are  tonics  now,  do  you  see, 
that  might  strengthen  you — quinine,  perhaps? — or — " 

"  No,  no,"  said  she,  in  rather  a  sad  fashion.  "I  have  done 
with  drugs,  Yolande.  You  shall  be  my  doctor ;  I  don't  want 
any  one  else.     I  am  in  your  hands." 

"  It  is  too  great  a  responsibility,  mother." 


YOLANDE.  395 

"You  mean  to  decide  whether  we  leave  Worthing?"  said  the 
mother,  cheerfully.  "Well,  I  will  decide  for  you,  Yolande.  I 
say — let  us  go." 

"  We  could  go  slowly — in  short  distances,"  the  girl  said, 
thoughtfully.  "  Waiting  here  or  there  for  fine  weather,  do  you 
I  see,  mother  ?  For  example,  we  would  not  set  out  at  this  mo- 
ment, for  the  winds  are  boisterous  and  cold.  And  then,  mother, 
if  there  is  fatigue — if  you  are  very  tired  with  the  journey,  think 
of  the  long  rest  and  idleness  at  Nice — and  the  soft  air." 

"  Very  well,  Yolande ;  whatever  you  do  will  be  right. 
And  I  am  ready  to  set  out  with  you  .whenever  you  please." 

Yolande  now  set  about  making  final  preparations  for  leaving 
England ;  and  amongst  the  first  of  these  was  the  writing  a  letter 
to  Mrs.  Bell,  It  was  little  more  than  a  message  of  good-by ; 
but  still  she  intimated  that  she  should  be  glad  to  hear  how  af- 
fairs were  going  on  at  Gress,  and  also  what  was  being  done 
about  Monaglen.  And  she  begged  Mrs.  Bell's  acceptance  of 
the  accompanying  bits  of  lace,  which  she  had  picked  up  at  some 
charitable  institution  in  the  neighborhood,  and  which  she  thougjit 
would  look  nice  on  black  silk. 

The  answer,  which  arrived  speedily,  was  as  follows : 

Gress,  Hie  Wih  Novemh&i'. 
"  My  dear  young  Lady, — It  was  a  great  1  onor  to  me  to  re- 
ceive the  letter  from  you  this  morning,  and  a  great  pleasure  to 
me  to  know  that  you  arc  well,  this  leaving  us  all  here  in  the 
same.  Maybe  I  would  have  taken  the  liberty  to  write  to  you  before 
now,  but  that  I  had  not  your  address,  and  Duncan,  the  keeper,  was 
ignorant  of  it.  And  I  had  a  mind  to  ask  the  Hon.  Mrs.  Gra- 
ham, seeing  her  drive  past  one  day  on  her  return;  but  they  glai- 
ket  lassies  that  were  to  have  told  me  when  they  saw  her  come 
along  the  road  again  were  forgetful,  as  usual,  and  so  I  missed 
the  opportunity.  My  intention  was  to  tell  you  about  Monaglen, 
which  you  are  so  kind  as  to  ask  about.  It  is  all  settled  now, 
and  the  land  made  over  to  its  rightful  possessor ;  and  I  may  say 
that  when  the  Lord,  in  His  good  time,  sees  fit  to  take  me,  I  will 
close  my  eyes  in  peace,  knowing  that  I  have  done  better  with 
what  was  intrusted  to  me  than  otherwise  might  have  happened. 
But  in  the  mean  time  my  mind  is  ill  at  ease,  and  I  am  not  thank- 
ful for  such  mercies  as  have  been  vouchsafed  to  me,  because  I 
would  fain  have  Mr.  Melville  informed  of  what  has  been  done, 
and  yet  not  a  word  dare  I  speak.  At  the  best  he  is  a  by-ordi- 
nar  proud,  camstrary  man ;  but  ever  since  he  has  come  back 
this  last  ^ime  l\e  is  more  unsettled  and  distant  like — not  con- 


396  YOLANDE. 

versing  with  people,  as  was  his  custom,  but  working  at  all  kinds 
of  hours,  as  if  his  life  depended  on  they  whigmaleeries ;  and  then 
again  away  over  the  hills  and  moors  by  himself,  without  even 
the  pastime  of  fishing  that  used  to  occupy  him.  Deed,  I  tried 
.once  to  tell  him,  but  my  brain  got  into  a  kind  of  whummle;  I 
could  not  get  out  a  word ;  and  as  he  was  like  to  think  me  an 
idiwut,  I  made  some  excuse  about  the  school-laddies,  and  away 
he  went.  Howsever,  what's  done  can  not  be  undone.  The  lawyers 
vouch  for  that;  and  a  pretty  penny  they  charged  me.  But 
Monaglen  is  his,  to  have  and  to  hold,  whether  he  wil  or  no, 
and  the  Melvilles  have  got  their  ain  again,  as  the  song  says. 
And  if  any  one  tells  me  that  I  could  have  done  better  with  the 
money  I  will  not  gainsay  them,  for  there  are  wiser  heads  than 
mine  in  the  world  ;  but  I  will  say  that  I  had  the  right  to  do  what 
pleased  myself  with  what  belonged  to  me. 

"Many's  the  time  I  wish  that  I  had  an  intervener  that  would 
tell  him  of  it,  and  take  the  task  off  my  hands ;  for  I  am  sore 
afraid  that  did  I  do  it  myself,  having  little  skill  of  argument 
or  persuasion,  he  would  just  be  off  in  a  fluff,  and  no  more  to  be 
said.  For  that  matter,  1  might  be  content  with  things  as  they 
are,  knowing  that  his  father's  land  would  go  to  him  when  my 
earthly  pilgrimage  was  come  an  end;  but  sometimes  my  heart  is 
grieved  for  the  poor  lad,  when  I'm  thinking  that  maybe  he  is 
working  early  and  late,  and  worrying  himself  into  a  whey-faced 
condition,  to  secure  a  better  future  for  himself,  when  the  future 
is  sure  enough  if  he  only  kenned.  Besides  that,  I  jalouse 
there's  a  possibility  of  his  going  away  again ;  for  I  see  there  are 
bits  of  things,  that  he  put  together  on  the  day  when  you,  dear 
young  lady,  left  Allt-nam-ba,  that  he  has  not  unpacked  again; 
and  he  has  engaged  the  ;[oun^  lad  Dalrymple  at  a  permanent 
wage  now,  seeing  that  the  chiel  does  very  well  with  the  school- 
bairns — though  I  envy  not  the  mother  that  had  to  keep  him  in 
porridge  when  he  was  a  laddie.  Now  that  is  how  we  are  situ- 
ate here,  my  dear  young  lady,  since  you  have  been  so  kind  as 
to  remember  us;  and  I  would  fain  be  asking  a  little  more  news 
about  yourself  if  it  was  not  making  bold,  for  many's  the  time  I 
have  wondered  whether  ye  would  come  back  again  to  Allt-nam- 
ba.  It  is  a  rough  place  for  gentle-nurtured  people,  and  but 
little  companionship  for  a  young  lady ;  but  I  heard  tell  the 
shooting  was  good,  and  if  the  gentlemen  are  coming  back,  I  hope 
you'll  no  be  kept  away  by  the  roughness  of  the  place,  for  I'm 
sure  I  would  like  to  have  a  glint  of  your  face  again.  And  I 
would  say  my  thanks  for  the  collar  and  cuffs  in  that  beautiful  fine 
lace,  but  indeed  there  is  more  in  my  heart  than  the  tongue  can 


YOLANDE.  397 

speak.  It  is  just  too  good  of  ye ;  and  although  such  things  are 
far  too  fine  for  an  old  woman  like  me,  still  I'm  thinking  I'll  be 
putting  them  on  next  Sabbath  morning,  just  to  see  if  Mr.  Mel- 
ville will  be  asking  if  I  have  taken  leave  of  my  five  senses.  But 
he  has  not  been  familiar  like  since  his  coming  back,  which  is  a 
sorrow  to  me,  that  must  keep  my  tongue  tied  when  I  would  fain 
speak. 

"  This  is  all  at  present,  dear  young  lady,  from  your  humble 
servant,  Christina  Bell."      ^ 

For  one  breathless  second  it  flashed  across  Yolande's  brain 
that  she  would  become  the  "  intervener."  Would  it  not  be  a 
friendly  thing  to  do,  as  she  was  leaving  England,  to  write  and 
tell  him,  and  to  lay  an  injunction  on  him  not  to  disappoint  this 
kind  creature's  hopes?  But  then  she  turned  away.  The  past 
was  past.  Her  interests  and  duties  were  here.  And  so — with 
something  of  a  sigh,  perhaps — she  took  to  the  immediate  busi- 
ness of  getting  ready  for  the  journey ;  and  had  everything  so 
prepared  that  they  were  ready  to  start  at  a  moment's  notice, 
whenever  the  weather  was  propitious. 

And,  indeed,  they  had  fixed  definitely  the  day  of  their  de- 
parture, when,  on  the  very  night  before,  the  varying  northerly 
winds,  that  had  been  blowing  with  more  or  less  of  bitterness  for 
some  time,  culminated  in  a  gale.  It  was  an  unusual  quarter — 
most  of  the  gales  on  that  part  of  the  coast  coming  from  the  south 
and  the  southwest;  but  all  the  same  the  wind  during  the  night 
blew  with  the  force  of  a  hurricane,  and  the  whole  house  shook 
and  trembled.  Then,  in  the  morning,  what  was  their  astonish- 
ment to  find  the  sunlight  pouring  in  at  the  parlor  windows;  and 
outside,  the  world  white  and  hushed  under  a  sheet  of  dazzling 
snow !  That  is  to  say,  as  much  of  the  world  as  was  visible — 
the  pavement,  and  the  street,  and  the  promenade,  and  the 
beach;  beyond  that  the  wind-ruffled  bosom  of  the  sea  was  dark 
and  sullen  in  comparison  with  this  brilliant  white  wonder  lying 
all  around.  And  still  the  northerly  gale  blew  hard ;  and  one 
after  another  strangel}^  dark  clouds  were  blown  across  the  sky, 
until,  as  they  got  far  enough  to  the  south,  the  sun  would  shine 
through  them  wfth  a  strange  coppery  lustre,  and  then  would 
disappear  altogether,  and  the  dark  sea  would  become  almost 
black.  And  then  again  the  fierce  wind  would  hurry  on  the 
smoke-colored  pall  to  the  horizon ;  and  there  would  be  glimpses 
of  a  pale  blue  sky  flecked  with  streaks  of  white;  and  the  brilliant 
sunlight  would  be  all  around  them  once  more,  on  the  boats  and 
the  shingle  and  the  railings  and  the  snow-whitened  streets. 


398  YOLANDE. 

Now  Yolande's  mother  was  strangely  excited  by  the  scene; 
for  it  confirmed  lier  in  a  curious  fancy  she  had  formed  that  dur- 
ing all  the  time  she  had  been  under  the  influence  of  those  drugs 
she  had  been  living  in  a  dream,  and  that  she  was  now  making 
the  acquaintance  again  of  the  familiar  features  of  the  world  as  she 
once  had  known  them. 

"  It  seems  years  and  years  since  I  saw  the  snow,"  she  said, 
looking  on  the  shining  white  world  in  a  mild  entrancement  of 
delight.  "  Oh,  Yolande,  I  should  like  to  see  the  falling  snow — 1 
should  like  to  feel  it  on  my  hands." 

"You  are  likely  to  see  it  soon  enough,  mother,"  said  the 
girl,  who  had  noticed  how  from  time  to  time  the  thick  clouds 
going  over  shrouded  everything  in  an  ominous  gloom.  "  In  the 
mean  time  I  shall  go  round  after  breakfast  and  tell  Mr.  Wather- 
ston  not  to  send  the  carriage :  we  can't  start  in  a  snow-storm." 

"  But  why  not  send  Jane,  Yolande  ?  It  will  be  bitterly  cold 
outside." 

"  I  suppose  it  will  be  no  colder  for  me  than  for  her,"  Yolande 
said.  And  then  she  added,  with  a  smile  of  confession,  "Be- 
sides, I  want  to  see  what  everything  looks  like." 

"Will  you  let  me  go  with  you?  May  I?"  said  the  mother, 
wistfully. 

"  You  ?  "  said  Yolande,  laughing.  /'  Yes,  that  is  likely — that 
is  very  likely !  You  are  in  good  condition  to  face  a  gale  from 
the  northeast,  and  walk  through  snow  at  the  same  time !" 

When  Yolande  went  out  she  found  it  was  bitterly  cold,  even 
though  the  terrace  of  houses  sheltered  her  from  the  northeast 
wind.  She  walked  quickly — and  even  with  a  kind  of  exhilara- 
tion, for  this  new  thing  in  the  world  was  a  kind  of  excitement; 
and  when  she  had  gone  and  delivered  her  message,  she  thought 
she  would  have  a  turn  or  two  up  and  down  the  pier,  for  there 
the  snow  had  been  in  a  measure  swept  from  the  planks,  and 
there  was  freer  walking.  Moreover,  she  had  the  whole  prome- 
nade to  herself  ;  and  when  she  got  to  the  end  she  could  turn  to 
find  before  her  the  spectacle  of  the  long  line  of  coast  and  the 
hills  inland  all  whitened  with  the  snow,  while  around  her  the 
suilen-hued  sea  seemed  to  shiver  under  the  gusts  of  wind  that 
swept  down  on  it.  Walking  back  was  not  so  comfortable  as 
walking  out;  nevertheless,  she  took  another  turn  or  two,  for  she 
knew  that  if  the  snow  began  to  fall  she  might  bo  imprisoned  for 
the  day;  and  she  enjoyed  all  the  natural  delight  of  a  sound  con- 
stitution in  brisk  exercise.  She  had  to  walk  smartly  to  withstand 
the  cold,  and  the  fight  against  the  wind  was  something;  alto- 
gether, she  remained  on  the  pier  longer  than  she  had  intended. 


YOLANDE.  399 

Then  sometliing  tonched  her  cheek,  and  stung  her,  as  it  were. 
She  turned  and  looked :  soft,  white  flakes — a  few  of  them  only, 
but  they  were  large — were  coming,  fluttering  along  and  past  her ; 
and  here  and  there  one  alighted  on  her  dress  like  a  moth,  and 
hung  there.  It  was  strange,  for  the  sunlight  was  shining  all 
around  her,  and  there  were  no  very  threatening  clouds  visible 
over  the  land.  But  they  grew  more  and  more  frequent ;  they 
lit  on  her  hair,  and  she  shook  them  ojff ;  they  lit  on  her  eyelashes, 
and  melted  moist  and  cold  into  her  eyes ;  at  length  they  had 
given  a  fairly  white  coating  to  the  front  of  the  dress,  and  so  she 
made  up  her  mind  to  make  for  home,  through  this  bewilderment 
of  snow  and  sunlight.  It  was  a  kind  of  fairy  thing,  as  yet,  and 
wonderful  and  beautiful ;  but  she  knew  very  well  that  as  soon 
as  the  clouds  had  drifted  over  far  enough  to  obscure  the  sun,  it 
would  look  much  less  wonderful  and  supernatural,  and  she 
would  merely  be  making  her  way  through  an  ordinary  and  some- 
what heavy  fall  of  snow. 

But  when  she  got  nearer  to  the  house  something  caught  her 
eye  there  that  filled  her  with  a  sudden  dismay.  Her  mother 
was  standing  in  the  balcony,  and  she  had  her  hands  outstretched 
as  if  she  were  taking  a  childish  delight  in  feeling  the  flakes  fall 
on  her  fingers ;  and  when  she  saw  Yolande  she  waved  a  pleasant 
recognition  to  her.  Yolande — sick  at  heart  with  dread — hur- 
ried to  the  door ;  ran  upstairs  when  she  got  in,  and  rushed  to 
the  balcony.  She  was  breathless;  she  could  not  speak;  she 
could  only  seize  her  mother  by  the  arm,  and  drag  her  into  the 
room. 

"  Why,  what  is  it,  Yolande  ?"  the  mother  said.  *'  I  saw  you 
coming  through  the  snow.  Isn't  it  beautiful — beautiful !  It 
looks  like  dreams  and  pictures  of  long  ago — I  have  not  felt  snow 
on  my  hands  and  my  hair  for  so  many  and  many  years — " 

"  How  could  you  be  so  imprudent,  mother !"  the  girl  said, 
when  she  had  got  breath.  ''  And  without  a  shawl !  Where  was 
Jane?     To  stand  out  in  the  snow — " 

"It  was  only  for  a  minute,  Yolande,"  said  she,  while  the  girl 
was  dusting  the  snow  from  her  mother's  shoulders  and  arras  with 
her  pocket-handkerchief.  "It  was  only  a  minute — and  it  was 
so  strange  to  see  snow  again." 

"  But  why  did  you  go  out? — why  did  you  go  out?"  the  girl 
repeated.  "  On  a  bitterly  cold  morning  like  this,  and  bare-headed 
and  bare-necked." 

"  Well,  yes,  it  is  cold  outside,"  she  said,  with  an  involuntary 
shiver.  "  I  did  not  think  it  would  be  so  cold.  There,  that  will 
do,  Yolande;  I  will  sit  down  by  the  fire,  and  get  warm  again." 


400  YOLANDE, 

"  What  you  ought  to  do  is  to  have  some  hot  brandy  and  water, 
and  go  to  bed,  and  have  extra  blankets  put  over  you,"  said  Yo- 
lande,  promptly. 

"  Oh  no ;  I  shall  be  warm  again  directly,"  said  she,  though 
she  shivered  slightly,  as  she  got  into  the  easy-chair  by  the  fire, 
and  began  chafing  her  hands,  which  were  red  and  cold  with  the 
wet  snow.  "  It  was  too  much  of  a  temptation,  Yolande — that 
is  the  fact.     It  was  making  the  acquaintance  of  the  snow  again." 

"  It  was  more  like  making  the  acquaintance  of  a  bad  cold," 
said  Yolande,  sharply. 

However,  she  got  some  thick  shawls  and  put  them  round  her 
mother,  and  the  shivering  soon  ceased.  She  stirred  up  the  fire, 
and  brought  her  some  illustrated  papers,  and  then  went  away  to 
get  some  things  out  again  from  the  portmanteaus,  for  it  was 
clearly  no  use  thinking  of  travelling  in  this  weather.  It  had  set- 
tled down  to  snowing  heavily;  the  skies  were  dark;  there  was 
no  more  of  the  fairy-land  performance  of  the  morning;  and  so 
Yolande  set  about  making  themselves  as  comfortable  as  possible 
within-doors,  leaving  their  future  movements  to  be  decided  by 
such  circumstances  as  should  arise. 

But  daring  that  evening  Yolande's  mother  seemed  somewhat 
depressed,  and  also  a  little  bit  feverish  and  uncomfortable. 

"  I  should  not  wonder  if  you  were  going  to  have  a  very  bad 
cold,  mother,"  the  girl  said.  "  I  should  not  wonder  if  you  had 
caught  a  chill  by  going  out  on  the  balcony." 

"  Nonsense,  nonsense,  child ;  it  was  only  for  a  minute  or 
so." 

"  I  wish  you  would  take  something  hot  before  going  to  bed, 
mother.  Port-wine  negus  is  good,  is  it  not?  I  do  not  know. 
I  have  only  heard.  Or  hot  whiskey  and  water?  Mr.  Short- 
lands  had  three  tumblers  of  it  after  he  fell  into  the  Uisge-nan- 
Sithean,  and  had  to  walk  the  long  distance  home  in  wet  clotlits ; 
and  the  rugs  and  shawls  we  had  put  on  his  bed — oh,  it  is  im- 
possible to  tell  the  number." 

"  No,  never  mind,  Yolande,"  the  mother  said.  "  I  would 
rather  not  have  any  of  these  things.  But  I  am  a  little  tired.  I 
think  I  will  go  to  bed  now ;  and  perhaps  Jane  could  ask  for  an 
extra  blanket  for  me.  You  need  not  be  alarmed.  If  I  have 
caught  a  slight  cold — well,  you  say  we  ought  not  to  start  in 
such  weather  in  any  case." 

"Shall  I  come  and  read  to  you,  mother?" 

"  No,  no ;  why  should  you  trouble  ?  Besides,  I  am  rather 
tired;  most  likely  I  shall  go  to  sleep.  Now  I  will  leave  you  to 
your  novel  about  the  Riviera;  and  you  mufct  draw  in  your  chair 


YOLANDh.  401 

to  the  fire ;  and  soon  you  will  have  forgotten  that  there  is  such 
a  thing  as  snow." 

And  so  they  bade  good-night  to  each  other,  and  Yolande  was 
not  seriously  disturbed. 


CHAPTER  XLVIII. 

A    MEETING. 

But  next  morning  the  mother  was  ill — nay,  as  Yolande  in  her 
first  alarm  imagined,  seriously  ill.  She  could  hardly  speak ;  her 
hands  and  forehead  were  hot  and  feverish ;  she  would  take  no- 
thing in  the  shape  of  breakfast ;  she  only  turned  away  her  head 
languidly.  Yolande  was  far  too  frightened  to  stay  to  consult 
her  mother's  nervous  fancies  or  dislikes ;  a  doctor  was  sent  for 
instantly — the  same  doctor,  in  fact,  who  had  been  called  in  be- 
fore. And  when  this  portly,  rubicund,  placid  person  arrived  his 
mere  presence  in  the  room  seemed  to  introduce  a  measure  of 
calm  into  the  atmosphere ;  and  that  was  well.  He  was  neither 
excited  nor  alarmed.  He  made  the  usual  examination,  asked  a 
few  questions,  and  gave  some  general  and  sufficiently  sensible 
directions  as  to  how  the  patient  should  be  tended.  And  then 
he  said  he  would  write  out  a  prescription — for  this  practitioner, 
in  common  with  most  of  his  kind,  had  retained  that  simple  and 
serene  faith  in  the  efiicacyof  drugs  which  has  survived  centuries 
of  conflicting  theories,  contradictions  in  fact,  and  scientific  doubt, 
and  which  is  perhaps  more  beneficial  than  otherwise  to  the  human 
race,  so  long  as  the  quantities  prescribed  are  so  small  as  to  do  no 
positive  harm.  It  was  aconite,  this  time,  that  he  chose  to  ex- 
periment with. 

However,  when  he  followed  Yolande  into  the  other  room,  in 
order  to  get  writing  materials,  and  when  he  sat  down  and  began 
to  talk  to  her,  it  was  clear  that  he  understood  the  nature  of  the 
case  well  enough ;  and  he  plainly  intimated  to  her  that,  when  a 
severe  chill  like  this  had  caught  the  system  and  promised  to 
produce  a  high  state  of  fever,  the  result  depended  mainly  on 
the  power  of  the  constitution  to  repel  the  attack  and  fight  its 
way  back  to  health. 

"  Now  I  suppose  I  may  speak  frankly  to  you,  Miss  Winter- 
bourne  ?"  said  he. 


402  YOLANDE. 

"Oh  yes;  wliy  not?"  said  Yolande,  who  was  far  too  anxious 
to  care  about  formalities. 

"You  must  remember,  then,  that  tlion2;h  you  have  only  seen 
me  once  before,  I  have  seen  you  twice.  The  first  time  you  were 
insensible.  Now,"  said  he,  fixing  his  eyes  on  her,  "  on  that 
occasion  I  was  told  a  little,  but  I  guessed  more.  It  was  to 
frighten  your  mother  out  of  the  habit  lliat  you  took  your  first 
dose  of  that  patent  medicine.     May  I  assume  that?" 

"  Well,  yes,"  said  Yolande,  with  downcast  eyes — though,  in- 
deed, there  was  nothing  to  be  ashamed  of. 

"Now,  I  want  you  to  tell  me  honestly  whether  you  believe 
that  warning  had  effect." 

"  Indeed,  I  am  sure  of  it,"  said  Yolande,  looking  up,  aiul 
speaking  with  decision. 

"  You  think  that  since  then  she  has  not  had  recourse  to  any 
of  those  opiates  ?" 

"  I  am  positively  certain  of  it,"  Yolande  said  to  him. 

"  I  suppose  being  deprived  of  them  cost  tlic  poor  lady  a  strug- 
gle ?"  he  asked. 

"  Yes,  once  or  twice — but  that  was  some  time  ago.  Latterly 
she  was  growing  ever  so  much  more  l>right  and  cheei'ful,  bi?t 
still  she  was  weak,  and  I  was  hesitating  about  risking  the  long 
journey  to  the  south  of  Fi'ance.  Yes,  it  is  I  that  am  to  blame. 
Why  did  I  not  go  sooner?  Why  did  I  not  go  sooner?"  she  re- 
peated, with  tears  coming  into  her  eyes. 

"Indeed  you  can  not  blame  yourself.  Miss  Winterbournc,"  the 
doctor  said.  "I  have  no  doubt  you  acted  for  the  best.  The 
imprudence  you  tell  me  of  might  have  happened  anywhere.  If 
you  keep  the  room  warm  and  equable,  your  mother  will  do  as 
well  here  as  in  the  south  of  France — until  it  is  safe  for  you  to 
remove  her." 

"But  how  soon,  doctor? — how  soon?  Oh,  when  I  get  the 
chance  again  I  will  not  wait." 

"  But  you  must  wait — and  you  must  be  patient,  and  careful. 
It  will  not  do  to  hurry  matters.  Your  mother  is  not  strong. 
The  fight  may  be  a  long  one.  Now,  Miss  Winterbourne,  you 
will  send  and  get  this  prescription  made  up;  and  I  will  call 
again  in  the  afternoon." 

Yolande  went  back  to  her  mother's  room,  and  sent  away 
Jane ;  she  herself  would  be  nurse.  On  tiptoe  she  went  about, 
doing  what  she  thought  would  add  to  her  mother's  comfort ; 
noiselessly  tending  the  fire  that  had  been  lit,  arranging  a  shutter 
so  that  less  light  should  come  in,  and  so  forth,  and  so  forth. 
But  the  confidence  inspired  by  the  -presence  o^  the  doctor  w;\s 


YOLANDE.  403 

gone  now ;  a  terrible  anxiety  had  succeeded ;  and  when  at  last  she 
sat  down  in  the  silent  room,  and  felt  that  she  could  do  nothing 
more,  a  sense  of  helplessness,  of  loneliness,  entirely  overcame 
her,  and  she  was  ready  to  despair.  Why  had  she  not  gone 
away  sooner,  before  this  terrible  thing  happened  ?  Why  had  she 
delayed?  They  might  now  have  been  walking  happily  together 
along  some  sunny  promenade  in  the  South — instead  of  this — this 
hushed  and  darkened  room ;  and  the  poor  invalid,  whom  she 
had  tended  so  carefully,  and  who  seemed  to  be  emerging  into  a 
new  life  altogether,  thus  thrown  back  and  rendered  once  more 
helpless.  Why  had  she  gone  out  on  that  fatal  morning?  Why 
had  she  left  her  mother  alone  ?  If  she  had  been  in  the  room 
there  would  have  been  no  venturing  into  the  snow,  whatever 
dreams  and  fancies  were  calling.  If  she  had  but  taken  courage 
and  set  out  for  the  South  a  week  sooner — a  day  sooner — this 
would  not  have  happened ;  and  it  seemed  so  hard  that  when 
she  had  almost  secured  the  emancipation  of  her  mother — when 
the  undertaking  on  which  she  had  entered  with  so  much  of 
fear,  and  wonder,  and  hope  was  near  to  being  crowned  with 
success — the  work  should  be  undone  by  so  trifling  an  accident. 
She  was  like  to  despair. 

But  patience — patience — she  said  to  herself.  She  had  been 
warned,  before  she  had  left  Scotland,  that  it  was  no  light 
matter  that  lay  before  her.  If  she  was  thrown  back  into  prison, 
as  it  were,  at  this  moment,  the  door  would  be  opened  some  day. 
And,  indeed,  it  was  not  of  her  own  liberty  she  was  thinking — 
it  was  the  freedom  of  light  and  life  and  cheerfulness  that  she 
had  hoped  to  secure  for  this  stricken  and  hapless  creature 
whom  fortune  had  not  over-well  treated. 

Her  mother  stirred,  and  instantly  she  went  to  the  bedside. 

"What  does  the  doctor  say,  Yolande?"  she  asked,  appa- 
rently with  some  difficulty. 

"Only  what  every  one  sees,"  she  said,  with  such  cheerfulness 
as  v/as  possible.  "  You  have  caught  a  bad  cold,  and  you  are 
feverish;  but  you  must  d  >  everything  that  we  want  you  to  do, 
and  you  will  fight  it  off  in  time." 

"  AVhat  kind  of  day  is  it  outside  ?"  she  managed  to  ask 
again. 

"  It  is  fine,  but  cold.  There  has  been  some  more  snow  in  the 
night." 

"If  you  wish  to  go  out,  go  out,  Yolande.     Don't  mind  me." 

"But  I  am  going  to  mind  you,  mother,  and  nobody  else. 
Here  I  am,  here  I  stay,  till  yoa  are  well  again.  You  shall 
have  uo  other  nurse." 


404  YOLANDE. 

"  You  will  make  yourself  ill,  Yolande.     You  must  go  out." 

She  was  evidently  speaking  with  great  difficulty. 

*'  Hush,  mother,  hush  T'  the  girl  said  ;  "  I  am  going  to  stay 
with  you.  You  should  not  talk  any  more — it  pains  you,  does 
it  not?" 

"  A  little."  And  then  she  turned  away  her  head  again.  "  If 
I  don't  speak  to  you,  Yolande,  don't  think  it  is  unkind  of  me. 
I — I  am  not  very  well,  I  think." 

And  so  the  room  was  given  over  to  silence  again,  and  the 
girl  to  anxious  thoughts  as  to  the  future.  She  had  resolved  not 
to  write  to  her  father  until  she  should  know  more  definitely. 
She  would  not  unnecessarily  alarm  him.  At  first,  in  her  sudden 
alarm,  she  had  thought  of  summoning  him  at  once ;  but  now 
she  had  determined  to  wait  until  the  doctor  had  seen  her  mother 
again.  If  this  were  only  a  bad  cold,  and  should  show  symp- 
toms of  disappearing,  then  she  could  send  him  a  re-assuring 
message.  At  present  she  was  far  too  upset,  and  anxious,  and 
disturbed  to  carefully  weigh  her  expressions. 

About  noon  Jane  stole  silently  into  the  room,  and  handed 
her  a  letter,  and  withdrew  again.  Yolande  was  startled  when 
she  glanced  at  the  handwriting,  and  hastily  opened  the  envelope. 
The  letter  came  from  Inverness,  and  was  dated  the  morning  of 
the  previous  day :  that  was  all  she  noted  carefully — the  rest 
seemed  to  swim  into  her  consciousness  all  at  once,  she  ran  her 
eye  over  the  successive  lines  so  rapidly,  and  with  such  a  breath- 
less agitation. 

"  My  dear  Yolande,"  Jack  Melville  wrote, — "  I  shall  reacb 
Worthing  just  about  the  same  time  as  this  letter.  I  am  coming 
to  ask  you  for  a  single  word.  Archie  Leslie  has  told  me — quite 
casually,  in  a  letter  about  other  things — that  you  are  no  longer 
engaged  to  him ;  and  I  have  dared  to  indulge  in  some  vague 
hopes — well,  it  is  for  you  to  tell  me  to  put  them  aside  forever, 
or  to  let  them  remain,  and  see  what  the  future  has  in  store. 
That  is  all.  I  don't  wish  to  interfere  with  your  duties  of  the 
moment — how  should  I  ? — but  I  can  not  rest  until  I  ascertain 
from  yourself  whether  or  no  I  may  look  forward  to  some  dis- 
tant time,  and  hope.  I  am  coming  on  the  chance  of  your  not 
having  left  Worthing.  Perhaps  you  may  not  have  left;  and  I 
beg  of  your  kindness  to  let  me  see  you,  for  ever  so  short  a 
time." 

She  quickly  and  quietly  went  to  the  door  and  opened  it. 
Her  face  was  very  pale. 


YOLANDE.  405 

"Jane!" 

The  maid  was  standing  at  the  window,  looking  out;  she  im- 
mediately turned  and  came  to  her  mistress. 

"  You  remember  Mr.  Melville,who  used  to  come  to  the  lodge  ?" 

"  Oh  yes,  miss." 

"  He  will  be  in  Worthing  to-day — he  will  call  here — perhaps 
soon — " 

She  paused  for  a  second,  in  this  breathless,  despairing  way  of 
talking,  as  if  not  knowing  what  to  say. 

"  He  will  ask  to  see  me — well — you  will  tell  him  I  can  not  see 
him.  I  can  not  see  him.  My  mother  is  ill.  Tell  him  I  am 
sorry — but  I  can  not  see  him." 

*'0h  yes,  miss,"  said  the  girl,  wondering  at  ber  young  mis- 
tress's agitation. 

Then  Yolande  quietly  slipped  into  the  room  again — glancing 
at  her  mother,  to  see  whether  her  absence  had  been  noticed ;  and 
her  hand  was  clutching  the  letter,  and  her  heart  beating  violently. 
It  was  too  terrible  that  he  should  arrive  at  such  a  moment— 
amid  this  alarm  and  anxiety.  She  could  not  bear  the  thought 
of  meeting  him.  Already  she  experienced  a  sort  of  relief  that 
she  was  in  the  sick-room  again :  that  was  her  place ;  there  her 
duties  lay.  And  so  she  sat  in  the  still  and  darkened  room, 
listening  with  a  sort  of  dread  for  the  ring  at  the  bell  below  ;  and 
then  picturing  to  herself  his  going  away ;  and  then  thinking  of 
the  years  to  come,  and  perhaps  his  meeting  her ;  and  she  grew  to 
fancy  (while  some  tears  were  stealing  down  her  cheeks)  that  very 
likely  he  would  not  know  her  again  when  he  saw  her,  for  she 
knew  that  already  her  face  was  more  worn  than  it  used  to  be, 
and  the  expression  of  the  eyes  changed.  When  she  did  hear  the 
ring  at  the  bell  her  heart  leaped  as  if  she  had  been  shot ;  but  she 
breathed  more  freely  when  tlie  door  was  shut  again.  She  could 
imagine  him  walking  along  the  pavement.  Would  he  think  her 
unkind  ?  Perhaps  he  would  understand  ?  At  all  events,  it  was 
better  that  he  was  gone;  it  was  a  relief  to  her;  and  she  went 
stealthily  to  the  bedside,  to  see  whether  her  mother  was  asleep ; 
and  now  all  her  anxiety  was  that  the  doctor  should  make  his 
appearance  soon,  and  give  her  some  words  of  cheer,  so  that  she 
should  have  no  need  to  write  to  her  father. 

This  was  what  happened  when  Melville  came  to  the  door.  To 
begin  with,  he  was  not  at  all  sure  that  he  should  find  Yolande 
there,  for  he  had  heard  from  Mrs.  Bell  that  she  and  her  mother 
were  leaving  England.  But  when  Jane,  in  response  to  his  ring. 
ing  of  the  bell,  opened  the  door,  then  he  knew  that  they  were 
not  gone. 


406  YOLANDE. 

"  Miss  Winterbourne  is  still  here,  then  ?"  he  said,  quicldy,  and 
indeed  with  some  appearance  of  anxiety  in  the  pale,  handsome 
face. 

"  Yes,  sir." 

He  paused  for  a  second. 

"  Will  you  be  good  enough  to  ask  her  if  I  can  see  her  for  a 
moment?"  he  said,  at  length.  "She  knows  that  I  meant  to  call 
on  her." 

"  Please,  sir.  Miss  Winterbourne  told  me  to  say  that  she  was 
very  sorry,  but  that  she  can  not  see  you." 

He  seemed  as  one  stupefied  for  a  moment. 

*'  Her  mother  is  ill,  sir,"  said  Jane. 

"Oh,"  he  said,  a  new  light  breaking  in  on  him — for  indeed 
that  first  blunt  refusal,  as  uttered  by  the  maid,  was  bewildering. 

"  Not  very  ill,  is  she  ?" 

"Well,  sir,"  said  Jane,  in  the  same  stolid  fashion,  "I  tliinkshe 
is  very  ill,  sir,  but  I  would  not  say  so  to  my  young  mistress, 
sir." 

"  Of  course  not — of  course  not,"  he  said,  absently  ;  and  then 
he  suddenly  asked,  "  Has  Miss  Winterbourne  sent  for  her 
father?" 

"  I  think  not,  sir.  I  think  she  is  waiting  to  hear  what  the 
doctor  says." 

"  Who  is  the  doctor  ?" 

She  gave  him  both  the  name  and  address. 

*'  Thank  you,"  said  he.  ''  I  will  not  trouble  Miss  Winterbourne 
with  any  message."     And  with  that  he  left. 

But  he  sent  her  a  message — some  half-hour  thereafter.  It 
was  merely  this : 

"Dear  Yolande, — I  am  deeply  grieved  to  have  intruded 
upon  you  at  such  a  time.  Forgive  me.  I  hope  to  hear  better 
news ;  but  do  not  you  trouble ;  I  have  made  arrangements  so  that 
I  shall  know.— J.  M." 

And  Yolande  put  that  note  with  the  other — for  in  truth  she 
had  carefully  preserved  every  scrap  of  writing  that  he  had  ever 
sent  her;  and  it  was  with  a  wistful  kind  of  satisfaction  that  at 
least  he  had  gone  away  her  friend.  It  was  something — nay,  it 
was  enough.  If  all  that  she  wished  for  in  the  world  could  get 
so  near  to  completion  as  this,  then  she  would  ask  for  nothing 
more. 

The  doctor  did  not  arrive  till  nearly  three  o'clock,  and  she 
awaited  his  verdict  with  an  anxiety  amounting  to  distress.     But 


YOLANDE.  407 

he  would  say  nothing  definite.  The  fever  had  increased,  cer- 
tainly ;  but  tliat  was  to  be  expected.  She  reported  to  him — as 
minutely  as  her  agitation  allowed — how  his  directions  had  been 
carried  out  in  the  interval,  and  he  approved.  Then  he  begged 
her  not  to  be  unduly  alarmed,  for  this  fever  was  the  common 
attendant  on  the  catching  of  a  sudden  chill ;  and  with  similar 
vague  words  of  re-assurance  he  left. 

But  the  moment  he  had  gone  she  sat  down  and  wrote  to  her 
father.  Fortunately  Mr.  Winterbourne  happened  at  the  mo- 
ment to  be  in  London,  for  he  had  come  up  to  make  inquiries 
about  some  railway  project  that  his  constituents  wished  him  to 
oppose  next  session ;  and  he  was  at  the  hotel  in  Arlington  Street 
that  Yolande  knew. 

"  Dear  Papa,"  she  said, — "  We  did  not  leave  yesterday  as 
I  said  we  should,  for  the  weather  was  so  severe  I  was  afraid  to 
take  the  risk.  And  now  another  thing  has  occurred:  my  dear 
mother  has  caught  a  very  bad  cold,  and  is  feverish  with  it,  so 
that  I  have  called  in  the  doctor.  I  hope  it  will  soon  go  away, 
and  we  will  be  able  to  make  the  voyage  that  was  contemplated. 
Alas  !  it  is  a  misfortune  that  there  was  any  delay.  Now,  dear 
papa,  you  said  that  you  were  anxious  to  be  of  service  to  us ;  and 
if  your  business  in  town  is  over,  could  you  spare  a  few  days  to 
come  and  stay  at  a  hotel  in  Worthing,  merely  that  I  may  know 
you  are  there,  which  will  re-assure  me,  for  I  am  nervous  and 
anxious,  and  probably  imagining  danger  when  there  is  none  ? 
As  for  your  coming  here — no,  that  is  not  to  be  thought  of ;  it 
would  agitate  my  dear  mother  beyond  expression,  and  now  more 
than  ever  we  have  to  secure  for  her  repose  and  quiet.  Will  it 
inconvenience  you  to  come  for  a  few  days  to  a  hotel  ?  Your 
loving  daughter,  Yolande  Winterbourne." 

Mr.  Winterbourne  came  down  next  morning — rather  guessing 
that  the  matter  was  more  serious  than  the  girl  had  represented 
— and  went  straight  to  the  house.  He  sent  for  Jane,  and  got 
it  arranged  that,  while  she  took  Yolande's  place  in  the  sick- 
room for  a  few  minutes,  Yolande  should  come  down-stairs  and 
sec  him  in  the  ground-floor  parlor,  which  was  unoccupied.  It  is 
to  be  remembered  that  he  had  not  seen  his  daughter  since  she 
left  the  Highlands. 

W^hcn  Yolande  came  into  the  room  his  eyes  lighted  up  with 
gladness  ;  but  the  next  minute  they  were  dimmed  with  tears — 
and  the  hands  that  took  hers  were  trembling — and  he  could 
hardly  speak. 


408  YOLANDE, 

"  Child,  child,"  said  he,  in  a  second  or  so,  "  how  you  are 
changed  1     You  are  not  well,  Yolande :  have  you  been  ill?" 

"  Oh  no,  papa,  I  am  perfectly  well." 

The  strange  seriousness  of  her  face ! — where  was  tiie  light- 
hearted  child  whose  laugh  used  to  be  like  a  ray  of  sunlight? 
She  led  him  to  the  window;  and  she  spoke  in  a  low  voice,  so 
that  no  sound  should  carry : 

"  Papa,  I  want  you  to-  call  on  the  doctor,  and  get  his  real 
opinion.  It  tortures  me  to  think  that  he  may  be  concealing 
something ;  I  sit  and  imagine  it ;  sometimes  I  think  he  has  not 
told  me  all  the  truth.  I  want  to  know  the  truth,  papa.  Will 
you  ask  him  ?" 

"  Yes,  yes,  child — I  will  do  whatever  you  want,"  said  he,  still 
holding  her  hand,  and  regarding  her  with  all  the  old  affection 
and  admiration.  "  Ah,  your  face  is  changed  a  little,  Yolande, 
but  not  much,  not  much — oh  no,  not  much  ;  but  your  voice 
hasn't  changed  a  bit.  I  have  been  wondering  this  many  a  day 
when  I  should  hear  you  talking  to  me  again." 

"  Never  mind  about  me,  papa,"  said  she,  quickly.  "  I  will 
give  you  the  doctor's  address.  Which  hotel  are  you  staying 
at?" 

He  told  her  as  she  was  writing  the  doctor's  address  for  him 
on  a  card;  and  then,  with  a  hurried  kiss,  she  was  away  again 
to  the  sick-room,  and  sending  Jane  down  to  open  the  door  for 
him. 

As  Yolande  had  desired,  he  went  and  saw  the  doctor,  who 
spoke  more  plainly  to  him  than  he  had  done  to  the  girl  of  the 
possible  danger  of  such  an  attack,  but  also  said  that  nothing 
could  be  definitely  predicted  as  yet.  It  was  a  question  of  the 
strength  of  the  constitution.  Mr.  Winterbourne  told  him  frank- 
ly who  he  was,  what  his  position  was,  and  the  whole  sad  story ; 
and  the  doctor  perfectly  agreed  with  Yolande  that  it  was  most 
unadvisable  to  risk  the  agitation  likely  to  be  produced  if  the 
poor  woman  were  to  be  confronted  with  her  husband.  Any 
messages  he  might  wish  to  send  (in  the  event  of  her  becoming 
worse)  could  be  taken  to  her ;  they  might  give  her  some  mental 
rest  and  solace  ;  but  for  the  present  the  knowledge  of  his  being 
in  Worthing  was  to  be  kept  from  her.  And  to  this  Mr.  Win- 
terbourne agreed,  though  he  would  fain  have  seen  a  little  more 
of  Yolande.  Many  a  time — indeed,  every  day — he  walked  up 
and  down  the  promenade,  despite  the  coldness  of  the  weather, 
and  always  with  the  hope  that  he  might  catch  some  glint  of  her 
at  the  window,  should  she  come  for  a  moment  to  look  at  the 
outer  world  and  the  wide  sea.     Once  or  twice  lie  did  so  catch 


YOLANDE.  409 

sight  of  her,  and  the  day  was  brighter  after  that.  It  was  like  a 
lover. 

As  the  days  passed  the  fever  seemed  to  abate  somewhat,  but 
an  alarming  prostration  supervene!  At  length  the  doctor  said, 
on  one  occasion  when  Mr.  Winterbourne  had  called  on  him  for 
news, 

"  I  think,  Mr.  Winterbourne,  if  you  have  no  objection,  I  should 
like  to  have  a  consultation  on  this  case.  I  am  afraid  there  is 
some  complication." 

"  I  hope  you  will  have  the  best  skill  that  London  can  afford," 
said  Mr.  Winterbourne,  anxiously;  for  although  the  doctor 
rather  avoided  looking  him  in  the  face,  the  sound  of  this  phrase 
was  ominous. 

"  Shall  I  ask  Sir to  come  down  ?"  he  said,  naming  one  of 

the  most  famous  London  physicians. 

"  By  all  means !  And,  whatever  you  do,  don't  alarm  my 
daughter ! — try  to  keep  her  mind  at  rest — say  it  is  a  technical 
point — say  anything — but  don't  frighten  herP 

"  I  will  do  my  best,"  the  doctor  promised ;  and  he  added,  "  I 
will  say  this  for  the  young  lady,  that  she  has  shown  a  devotion 
and  a  fortitude  that  I  have  never  seen  equalled  in  any  sick-room, 
and  I  have  been  in  practice  now  for  two-and-thirty  years." 

But  all  the  skill  in  London  or  anywhere  else  could  not  have 
saved  this  poor  victim  from  the  fatal  consequences  of  a  few 
moments'  thoughtlessness.  The  wasted  and  enfeebled  constitu- 
tion had  succumbed.  But  her  brain  remained  clear ;  and  as  long 
as  she  could  hold  Yolande's  hand,  or  even  see  the  girl  walkhig 
about  the  room  or  seated  in  a  chair,  she  was  content. 

"  I  don't  mind  dying  now,"  she  said,  or  rather  whispered,  on 
one  occasion.  "I  have  seen  you,  and  known  you;  you  have 
been  with  me  for  a  while.  It  was  like  an  angel  that  you  came 
to  me ;  it  was  an  angel  who  sent  you  to  me.  I  am  ready  to  go 
now." 

"  Mother,  you  must  not  talk  like  that !"  the  girl  exclaimed. 
"  Why,  the  nonsense  of  it !  How  long,  then,  do  you  expect  me 
to  be  kept  waiting  for  you,  before  we  can  start  for  Bordighera 
together  ?" 

"  We  shall  never  be  at  Bordighera  together,"  the  mother  said, 
absently — "  never  !  never !  But  you  may  be,  Yolandc ;  and  I 
hope  you  will  be  happy  there,  and  always ;  for  you  deserve  to  be. 
Ah  yes,  you  will  be  happy — surely  it  can  not  be  otherwise — you, 
so  beautiful  and  so  noble-hcartcd." 

And  at  last  Yolande  grew  to  fear  the   worst.     One  evening 


410  YOLANDE. 

she  had  sent  for  her  f atlier ;  and  she  went  down-stah-s  and  found 
him  in  the  sitting-room. 

"  Yolande,  you  are  as  white  as  a  ghost." 

"  Papa,"  she  said,  keeping  a  tight  guard  over  herself,  "  I  want 
you  to  come  up-stairs  with  me.  1  have  told  my  mother  you 
were  coming.  She  will  see  you;  she  is  grateful  to  you  for  the 
kind  messages  I  have  taken  to  her.  I — I  have  not  asked  the' 
doctors — but — I  wish  you  to  come  with  me.  Do  not  speak  to 
her — it  is  only  to  see  you  that  she  wants." 

He  followed  her  up  the  stairs;  hut  he  entered  first  into  the 
room,  and  he  went  over  to  the  bedside  and  took  his  wife's  hand, ; 
without  a  word.     The  memories  of  a  lifetime  were  before  him 
as  he  regarded  the  emaciated  cheek  and  the  strangely  large  and 
brilliant  eyes ;  but  all  the  bitterness  was  over  and  gone  now. 

"George,"  said  she,  "  I  wished  to  make  sure  you  had  forgiven 
me,  and  to  say  good-by.  You  have  been  mother  as  well  as 
father  to  Yolande — she  loves  you —  You — you  will  take  care 
of  her." 

She  closed  her  eyes,  as  if  the  effort  to  speak  had  overcome 
hev;  but  he  still  held  his  wife's  hand  in  his;  and  perhaps  lie  was 
thinking  of  what  had  been,  and  of  what — far  otherwise — uiight 
have  been. 


CHAPTER  XLIX. 

ROME. 


It  was  in  the  month  of  January  following,  when  the  white 
thoroughfares  of  Rome  were  all  shining  clear  in  the  morning 
sunlight,  that  Yolande  Winterbourne  stood  in  the  spacious  vesti- 
bule of  the  Hotel  du  Quirinal,  waiting  while  her  father  read  a 
letter  that  had  just  been  given  Iiim.  She  was  dressed  in 
deep  mourning ;  and  perhaps  that  only  heightened  the  contrast 
between  the  clearness  and  brightness  of  her  English-looking  com- 
plexion and  ruddy  golden  hair  and  the  sallow,  foreign-looking 
faces  around.  And  if  the  ordeal  through  which  she  had  passed 
had  altered  her  expression  somewhat — if  it  had  robbed  her  for- 
ever of  the  light  laughter  and  the  carelessness  of  her  girlhood — 
it  had  left  in  their  stead  a  sweet  seriousness  of  womanhood  that 
some  people  found  lovable  enough.  It  was  not  her  father  only 
who  saw  and  was  charmed  by  this  grave  gentleness  of  look,  as 


YOLANDE.  41J 

an  odd  incident  in  this  very  hotel  proved.  At  the  time  of  the 
Winterbournas'  arrival  in  Rome  there  happened  to  be  there — 
and  also  staying  at  the  Quirinal  Hotel — a  famous  French 
painter.  Of  coarse  every  one  in  the  hotel  knew  who  he  was,  and 
every  one  pretended  not  to  know,  for  he  seemed  to  wish  to  be 
alone ;  and  he  was  so  hard  at  work,  that  when  he  came  in  for 
his  mid-day  meal — which  was  of  the  most  frugal  kind — he 
rarely  spent  more  than  ten  or  twelve  minutes  over  it,  and  theu 
he  was  off  again,  only  pausing  to  light  a  cigarette  in  the  corridor. 
Well,  one  day  the  Winterbournes  went  as  usual  into  the  win- 
ter-garden saloon  of  the  hotel  to  have  a  bit  of  lunch,  for  they 
were  going  for  a  drive  somewhere  in  the  afternoon,  and  they 
were  just  about  to  sit  down  at  their  accustomed  table,  when  the 
famous  artist  rose  from  his  table  and  approached  them.  He 
was  a  little  man,  with  a  boyish  face,  but  with  careworn  eyes ; 
his  manner  was  grave,  and  yet  pleasant. 

"  Pardon  me,  sir,  the  liberty ;  but  may  I  present  myself  to 
you?"  said  he,  in  the  queerest  of  pronunciations — and  he  held  a 
card  between  his  finger  and  thumb.- 

"You  do  me  a  great  honor,  monsieur,"  said  Mr.  Winter- 
bourne,  with  a  low  bow,  and  addressing  him  in  his  owp  tongue ; 

and  he  managed  dexterously  to  hint  that  Monsieur had  no 

need  of  a  visiting-card  with  which  to  introduce  himself. 

Mea.  while  Yolandc  had  turned  aside,  under  pretence  of  tak- 
mg  off  her  bonnet;  and  the  great  artist,  without  any  circumlo- 
cution, told  her  father  what  was  the  object  of  his  thus  desiring 
to  make  their  acquaintance.  He  was  painting  a  religious  sub- 
ject, he  said,  which  had  great  difficulties  for  him.  He  had  ob- 
served mademoiselle  from  time  to  time.  She  had  so  noble  an 
air,  an  expression  so  tender,  so  Madonna-like!  All  that  he 
wanted,  if  the  father  would  grant  the  request,  was  to  be  permit- 
ted to  sit  at  their  table  for  a  few  minutes — to  observe  more 
closely,  to  find  out  what  was  the  peculiar  charm  of  expression. 
Would  monsieur  forgive  a  painter,  who  could  only  plead  that  it 
was  in  the  interest  of  his  art  that  he  made  so  bold  a  request  ? 

Mr.  Winterbourne  not  only  gladly  assented,  but  was  greatly 
flattered  to  hear  such  praise  of  Yolande  from  so  distinguished 
a  man;  and  so  she  v/as  immediately  summoned,  and  introduced, 
and  they  all  three  sat  down  to  the  little  table,  and  had  their 
lunch  together.  Yolande  was  in  happy  ignorance  that  she  was 
being  studied  or  examined  in  any  way  whatever;  and  he  took 
good  care  not  to  let  her  know.  This  little,  sad-eyed  man 
])rovcd  H  cheerful  enough  companion.  He  talked  about  any- 
thing and  ovoi ythiiig;   and  on  one  occasion   Yolande  had  the 


412  YOLANDE. 

happiness  of  being  able  to  add  to  bis  knowledge.  He  was  say- 
ing bow  tbe  realistic  decorations  on  tbe  walls  of  this  saloon — 
the  blue  skies,  the  crystal  globes  filled  with  swimming  fish  and 
suspended  in  mid-air,  tbe  painted  balconies,  and  shrubs,  and 
what  not — would  shock  the  severe  theorists  who  maintain  that 
in  decoration  natural  objects  should  be  represented  only  in  a 
conventional  manner ;  and  he  was  saying  that  nevertheless  this 
literal  copying  of  things  for  the  purposes  of  decoration  had  a 
respectable  antiquity — as  doubtless  mademoiselle  had  observed 
in  the  houses  of  Pompeii,  where  all  kinds  of  tricks  in  perspec- 
tive appeared  on  flat  surfaces — and  that  it  had  a  respectable 
authority — as  doubtless  mademoiselle  had  observed  in  the  Log- 
gie,  where  Raphael  had  painted  birds,  beasts,  or  fishes,  anything 
that  came  ready  to  his  hand  or  his  head,  as  faithfully  and 
minutely  as  drawing  and  color  could  reproduce  them. 

"  I  saw  another  thing  than  that  at  Pompeii,"  said  she,  witli  a 
slight  smile. 

"Yes?"  he  said;  and  she  did  not  know  that  all  the  time  he 
was  regarding  the  beautiful  curve  of  the  short  upper  lip,  and 
observing  how  easily  the  slight  pensive  droop  of  it  could  be 
modulated  into  a  more  cheerful  expression. 

"I  had  always  imagined,"  said  she,  "that  veneering  and 
wickedness  like  that  were  quite  modern  inventions.  Don't  they 
say  so?  Don't  they  say  that  it  is  modern  depravity  that  paints 
common  wood  to  make  it  like  oak,  and  paints  plaster  to  re- 
semble marble  ?  But  in  Pompeii  you  will  also  find  that  wicked- 
ness— yes,  I  assure  you,  I  found  in  more  than  one  house  beau- 
tiful black  marble  with  yellow  or  white  veins — so  like  real 
marble  that  one  would  not  suspect — but  if  you  examined  it 
where  it  was  broken  you  would  find  it  was  only  plaster,  or  a 
soft  gray  stone,  painted  over." 

"  Indeed,  mademoiselle,"  said  he,  laughing,  "  they  were  a 
wicked  people  who  lived  in  Pompeii ;  but  I  did  not  know  they 
did  anything  so  dreadful  as  that." 

This  was  the  beginning  of  an  acquaintanceship  that  lasted 
during  their  stay  in  Rome,  but  was  limited  to  this  brief  chat  in 
the  middle  of  the  day;  for  the  famous  Frenchman  was  the 
most  devoted  of  workers.  And  then,  when  he  heard  that  the 
Winterbournes  were  likely  to  leave  Rome,  he  besought  the 
father  to  allow  Yolande  to  give  two  or  three  sittings  to  a  young 
American  artist,  a  friend  of  his,  who  w^as  clever  at  pastels,  and 
had  a  happy  knack  in  catching  a  likeness.  As  it  turned  out 
that  Monsieur did  not  wish  merely  to  procure  a  commis- 
sion for  his  brother-  artist,  but  wanted  to  have  the  sketch  of 


YOLANDE.  413 

tlic  beautiful  young  English  lady  for  himself,  Mr.  Winterbourne 
hesitated,  but  Yolande  volunteered  at  once,  and  cheerfully;  for 
thev  had  already  visited  the  young  American's  studio,  and  been 
alloVed  to  hunt  through  his  very  considerable  collection  of 
hric-a-hrac — Eastern  costumes,  old  armor,  musical  instruments, 
Moorish  tiles,  and  the  like.  It  was  an  amusement  added  to  the 
occupations  of  the  day.  Besides,  there  was  one  of  the  most 
picturesque  views  in  Rome  from  the  windows  of  that  lofty  gar- 
ret. And  so  Yolande  sat  contentedly,  trying  the  strings  of  thi3 
or  that  fifteenth-century  lute,  while  the  young  American  was 
working  away  with  his  colored  chalks;  and  Mr.  Winterbourne, 
having  by  accident  discovered  the  existence,  hitherto  unsuspect- 
ed, of  a  curious  stiletto  in  the  hollow  handle  of  a  Persian  war- 
axe,  now  found  an  additional  interest  in  rummaging  among 
the  old  weapons  which  lay  or  hung  everywhere  about  the 
studio. 

And  so  we  come  back  to  the  morning  on  which  Yolande  was 
standing  at  the  entrance  to  the  hotel,  waiting  for  her  father  to 
read  his  letter.  When  he  had  ended  he  came  along  briskly  to 
her,  and  put  his  arm  within  hers. 

"Now,  Yolande,"  said  he,  "do  you  think  Mr.  Meteyard 
could  get  that  portrait  of  you  finished  off  to-day  ?  Bless  my 
soul,  it  wasn't  to  have  been  a  portrait  at  all ! — it  was  only  to 
have  been  a  sketch.  And  he  has  kept  on  niggling  and  nig- 
gling away  at  it — why  ?     Well,  I  don't  know  why — unless — " 

But  he  did  not  utter  the  suspicion  that  had  crossed  his  mind 
once  or  twice.  It  was  to  the  effect  that  Mr.  Meteyard  did  not 
particularly  want  to  finish  the  sketch,  but  would  rather  have  the 
young  English  lady  continue  her  visits  to  his  studio — where  he 
always  had  a  little  nosegay  of  the  choicest  flowers  awaiting 
her. 

"What  is  the  hurry,  papa?"  she  said,  lightly. 

"  Well,  here  is  a  letter  from  Shortlands.  He  has  just  started 
for  Venice.  If  we  are  to  meet  him  there  we  should  start  to- 
morrow for  Florence.  There  isn't  much  time  left  now  before 
the  opening  of  Parliament." 

"  Then  let  us  start  to-morrow  morning,"  said  she,  promptly, 
"  even  if  I  have  to  sit  the  whole  day  to  Mr.  Meteyard.  But  I 
think  this  is  the  only  time  we  have  ever  been  in  Rome  without 
having  driven  out  to  the  Baths  of  Caracalla." 

"  I  have  no  doubt,"  said  he,  "  that  the  Baths  of  Caracalla 
will  last  until  our  next  visit.  So  come  awa}'-,  Yolande,  and  let's 
hurry  up  Mr.  Meteyard — '  yank  him  along,'  I  believe,  is  the 
proper  phrase." 


414  YOLANDE. 

So  they  went  out  together  into  the  clear  white  sunlight. 

"  And  here,"  said  he,  discontentedly,  as  they  were  going 
along  the  street  of  the  Quattro  Fontane,  "is  Shortlands  ap- 
pointing to  meet  us  in  Venice  at  the Hotel.  I'm  not  go- 
ing to  the Hotel ;  not  a  bit  of  it !" 

"  Why,  papa,  you  know  that  is  where  Desdemona  was  buried !" 
she  exclaimed. 

"Don't  I  know!"  said  he,  with  a  gloomy  sarcasm.  "Can 
you  be  three  minutes  in  the  place  without  being  perfectly  con- 
vinced of  the  fact  ?  Oh  yes,  she  was  buried  there,  no  doubt. 
But  there  was  a  little  too  much  of  the  lady  the  last  time  avc 
were  there." 

"  Papa,  how  can  you  say  that !"  she  remonstrated.  "  It  is  no 
worse  than  the  other  ones.  And  the  parapet  along  the  Canal 
is  so  nice." 

"  I  am  going  to  Danieli's,''  he  said,  doggedly. 

"  I  hope  we  shall  get  the  same  rooms  we  used  to  have,  with 
the  balcony,"  said  she ;  "  and  then  we  shall  see  whether  the 
pigeons  have  forgotten  all  I  taught  them.  Do  you  remember 
how  cunning  they  became  in  opening  the  paper-bags — and  in 
searching  for  them  all  about  the  room?  Then  I  shouhln't 
wonder  if  we  were  to  see  Mr.  Leslie  at  Venice.  In  the  last  note 
I  had  from  him  he  said  they  were  going  there ;  but  he  seemed 
dissatisfied  with  his  companion,  and  I  do  not  know  whether 
they  are  still  together." 

"  Wouki  you  like  to  meet  the  Master  at  Venice  ?"  said  he, 
regarding  her. 

A  trifle  of  color  appeared  in  her  cheeks,  but  she  answered, 
cheerfully, 

"Oh  yes,  very  much.  It  would  be  like  a  party  of  old  times 
— Mr.  Shortlands,  and  he,  and  ourselves,  all  together." 

"  Shortlands  has  some  wonderful  project  on  hand — so  ho 
hints — but  he  does  not  say  what  it  is.  But  w*e  must  not  ?A' 
tempt  too  much.  I  am  afraid  you  and  I  are  very  lazy  and  idle 
travellers,  Yolande." 

"  I  am  afraid  so,  papa." 

"  At  all  events,"  said  he,  as  they  were  going  down  the  steps 
of  the  Piazza  di  Spagna — which  are  no  longer,  alas  !  adoD.ed 
by  picturesque  groups  of  artists'  models — "  at  all  events,  I  must 
be  back  at  the  beginning  of  the  session.  They  say  the  Qticen 
is  going  to  open  Parliament  in  person  this  year.  Now,  tlierc 
would  be  a  sight  for  you  !  That  is  a  spectacle  worth  going  to 
see." 

"  Ah  I"  she  said,  with  a  quick  interest,  "  am  I  to  be  allowed 


YOLANDE.  415 

to  go  to  the  House  of  Commons  after  all  ?  Shall  I  hear  you 
make  a  speech?     Shall  I  be  in  the  grill — is  it  the  grill  they  call 

itr 

"  No,  no,  you  don't  understand,  Yolande !"  &aid  he.  "  It  is  the 
ceremony  of  opening  Parliament.  It  is  in  the  House  of  Lords ; 
and  the  Queen  is  in  her  robes ;  and  everybody  you  ever  heard 
of  ill  England  is  there — all  in  grand  state.  I  should  get  you  a 
ticket,  by  hook  or  by  crook,  if  I  failed  at  the  ballot ;  I  heard 
that  one  was  sold  for  £40  the  last  time — but  maybe  that  was 

romance.     But  I  remember  this  for  fact,  that  when  Lord 

returned  from  abroad,  and  found  every  available  ticket  disposed 
of,  and  couldn't  get  one  anyhow,  he  was  in  a  desperate  state  be- 
cause his  wife  insisted  on  seeing  the  show  ;  and  when  he  went 

to  an  official,  and  said  that,  no  matter  how,  Lady  must 

and  should  be  admitted,  that  blunt-spoken  person  told  him  that 
he  might  as  well  try  to  get  her  ladyship  into  the  kingdom  of 
Heaven.  But  we'll  manage  it  for  you,  Yolande.  We'll  take 
it  in  time.  And  if  wc  can't  secure  it  any  other  way,  we'll  get 
you  into  the  Reporters'  Gallery,  as  the  representative  of  a  ladies' 
newspaper." 

When  they  had  climbed  up  to  the  altitudes  of  th,e  young 
artist's  studio,  which  was  situated  in  one  of  the  narrowest 
streets  between  the  Piazza  di  Spagna  and  the  Corso,  they  found 
Mr.  Meteyard  rather  dismayed  at  the  prospect  of  their  leaving 
Rome  so  soon.  It  was  not  entirely  a  question  of  finishing  the 
portrait.  Oh  yes,  he  said,  he  could  get  the  sketch  finished  well 
enough — that  is,  as  well  as  he  was  likely  to  be  able  to  do  it. 
But  he  had  no  idea  that  Mr.  and  Miss  Winterbourne  were  going 
away  so  soon.  Would  they  dine  with  him  at  his  hotel  that 
evening?  He  was  coming  to  England  soon;  might  he  call  and 
see  them  ?  And  would  Mr.  Winterbourne  take  with  him  that 
Persian  axe  in  the  handle  of  which  he  had  discovered  the 
stiletto?  And  would  Miss  Winterbourne  allow  him  to  paint  for 
her  a  replica  of  a  study  of  a  Roman  girl's  head  that  she  seemed 
rather  to  like,  and  he  would  have  it  forwarded  to  England,  and 
be  very  proud  if  she  would  accept  it  ? 

Alas  !  alas  !  this  youth  had  been  dreaming  dreams ;  and  no 
doubt  that  was  the  reason  of  his  having  dawdled  so  long  over  a 
mere  sketch  in  crayons.  But  he  was  not  wounded  unto  death. 
It  is  true,  he  covered  himself  with  reproaches  over  the  insuffi- 
ciency of  the  portrait — although  it  was  very  cleverly  done  and 
an  incontcbtably  good  likeness ;  and  he  gave  them  at  his 
hotel  that  evening  a  banquet  considerably  beyond  what  a  young 
painter  is  ordinarily  supposed   to  be  able  to  atiord;  and  the 


416  YOLANDE. 

next  morning,  although  the  train  for  Florence  leaves  early,  there 
he  was,  with  such  a  beautiful  bouquet  for  the  young  lady ! 
And  he  had  brought  her  eau-de-Cologne,  too,  for  the  journey, 
and  fruit,  and  sweets  (all  this  was  ostensibly  because  he  was 
grateful  to  her  for  having  allowed  him  to  make  a  sketch  of  her 
for  his  friend  the  famous  French  painter) ;  and  when  at  last  the 
train  went  away  out  of  the  station  he  looked  after  it  sadly 
enough.  But  he  was  not  inconsolable,  as  events  proved;  for 
within  three  months  of  this  sad  parting  he  had  married  a  rather 
middle-aged  contessa,  who  had  estates  near  Terracina,  and  a 
family  of  four  daughters  by  a  former  husband ;  and  when  the 
Winterbournes  next  saw  him  he  was  travelling  en  gar^on  through 
the  Southern  English  counties,  along  with  two  Scotch  artists, 
who  also — in  order  that  nothing  should  interfere  with  their  im- 
passioned study  of  Nature — had  left  their  wives  behind  them. 


CHAPTER   L. 


John  Shortlands,  however,  was  delayed  by  some  business 
in  Paris,  and  the  Winterbournes  arrived  in  Venice  first.  They 
went  to  Danieli's,  and  secured  the  rooms  which  were  familiar  to 
them  in  former  days.  But  Yolande  found  that  the  pigeons  had 
forgotten  all  she  had  ever  taught  them  ;  and  she  had  to  begin 
again  at  the  beginning — coaxing  them  first  by  sprinkling  maize 
on  the  balustrade  of  the  balcony ;  then  inveigling  them  down 
into  the  balcony  itself ;  then  leaving  the  large  windows  open, 
and  enticing  them  into  the  room ;  and,  finally,  educating  them 
so  that  they  would  peck  at  any  half-folded  packet  they  found 
on  the  stone  floor,  and  get  at  the  grain  inside.  The  weather 
happened  to  be  fine,  and  father  and  daughter  contentedly  set 
about  their  water-pilgrimages  through  the  wonderful  and  strange 
city  that  never  seems  to  lose  its  interest  and  charm  for  even 
those  who  know  it  most  familiarly,  while  it  is  the  one  thing  in 
the  world  that  is  safe  never  to  disappoint  the  new-comer,  if  he 
has  an  imagination  superior  to  that  of  a  hedgehog.  There  were 
several  of  Mr.  Winterbourne's  parliamentary  fiicnds  in  Venice 
at  this  time,  and  Yolande  was  very  eager  to  make  their 
acquaintance;  for  now,  with  the  prospect  before  her  of  being 
allowed  to  go   down  occasionally  and    listen  to    the  debates, 


YOLANDE.  417 

she  wished  to  become  as  familiar  as  was  possible  with  the 
personnel  of  the  House.  She  could  not  honestly  say  that 
these  legislators  impressed  her  as  being  persons  of  extraordinary 
intellectual  force,  but  they  were  pleasant  enough  companions. 
Some  of  them  had  a  vein  of  facetiousness,  while  all  of  them 
showed  a  deep  interest — and  even  sometimes  a  hot-headed 
partisanship — when  the  subject  of  cookery  and  the  various 
tables  d'hdte  happened  to  come  forward. 

Then,  one  night  when  they  had,  as  usual  after  dinner,  gone 
round  in  their  gondola  to  the  hotel  where  Mr.  Shortlands  was 
expected,  they  found  that  that  bulky  North-countryman  had 
arrived,  and  was  now  in  the  saloon,  quite  by  himself,  and 
engaged  in  attacking  a  substantial  supper.  A  solid  beefsteak 
and  a  large  bottle  of  Bass  did  not  seem  quite  in  consonance 
with  a  moonlight  night  in  Venice;  but  John  Shortlands  held 
to  the  "coelum,  non  animum"  theory:  and  when  he  could  get 
Dalescroft  fare,  in  Venice  or  anywhere  else,  he  preferred  that 
to  any  other.  He  received  the  Winterbournes  with  great  cor- 
diality; and  instantly  they  began  a  discussion  of  their  plans 
for  filling  in  the  time  before  the  opening  of  Parliament. 

"  But  what  is  the  great  project  you  were  so  mysterious  about  ?" 
Mr.  Winterbourne  asked. 

"Ay,  there's  something,  now,"  said  he,  pouring  out  another 
tumblerful  of  the  clear  amber  fluid.  "  There's  something  worth 
talking  about.  I've  taken  a  moor  in  Scotland  for  this  next 
season ;  and  Yolando  and  you  are  to  be  my  guests.  Tit  for 
tat's  fair  play.     I  got  it  settled  just  before  I  left  London." 

"  Whereabouts  is  it?"  Mr.  Winterbourne  asked  again. 

"  Well,  when  it's  at  home  they  call  it  Allt-nam-ba." 

"You  don't  mean  to  say  you've  taken  Allt-nam-ba  for  this 
year?" 

"  But  indeed  I  have.  Tit  for  tat's  fair  play;  and,  althoufili 
the  house  won't  be  as  well  managed  as  it  was  last  year — for  wo 
can't  expect  everything — still,  I  hope  we'll  have  as  pleasant  a 
time  of  it.  Ay,  my  lass,"  said  he,  regarding  Yolande,  "you 
look  as  if  a  breath  of  mountain  air  would  do  ye  some  good — 
better  than  wandering  about  foreign  towns,  I'll  be  bound." 

Yolande  c  d  not  answer ;  nor  did  she  express  any  gratitude 
for  so  kind  n  invitation ;  nor  any  gladness  at  the  thought  of 
returning  to  ihat  home  in  the  far  mountain  wilderness.  She 
sat  silent — p^.haps  also  a  trifle  paler  than  usual — while  the  two 
men  discussed  the  prospects  of  the  coming  seas©n. 

"  I'll  have  to  send  Edwards  and  some  ©f  them  up  from 
Dalescroft;  t.ough  where  they  are  to  i^et  beds  for  theniselver. 


418  YOLANDE, 

T  can't  imagine,"  John  Shortlands  said.  "  Won't  my  fine 
gentleman  turn  up  his  nose  if  he  has  to  take  a  room  in  the 
botliy!  By-the-way,  my  neighbor  Walkley — you  remember 
him,  Winterbourne,  don't  ye  ? — has  one  o'  those  portable  zinc 
houses  that  he  bought  some  two  or  three  years  ago"  wlien  lie 
leased  a  salmon-river  in  Sutlierlandshire.  I  know  he  hasn't 
used  it  since,  and  I  dare  say  he'd  lend  it  to  me.  It  could  easily 
be  put  up  behind  the  lodge  at  Allt-nam-ba;  and  then  they'd 
have  no  excuse  for  grumbling  and  growling." 

"But  why  should  you  send  up  a  lot  of  English  servants,  who 
don't  know  what  roughing  it  in  a  small  shooting-box  is  like  ?'' 
said  Mr.  Winterbourne.  "Why  should  you  bother?  We  did 
very  well  last  year,  didn't  we?  Why  shouldn't  you  have  exactly 
the  same  people — and  here  is  Yolande,  who  can  set  the  machine 
going  again — " 

"There  youVe  exactly  hit  it,"  said  Shortlands.  "For  that  is 
precisely  what  Yolande  is  not  going  to  do,  and  not  going  to  bo 
allowed  to  do.     It's  all  very  well  for  an  i'^'^-  ther  to  let 

his  daughter  slave  away  at  grocers'  accounts.  '  is  going 

to  be  my  guest,  and  must  have  a  clear,  full  >  \.  well  as 
any  of  us.     I  don't  say  that  she  didn't  do  it   .  -for  I 

never  saw  a  house  better  managed — everything  pi  -^ery- 

thing  well   done — no   breaking   down — just  whai  ted 

always  to  your  hand;  but  I  say  that,  this  year,  sh  e 

her  holiday  like  the  rest.     Perhaps  she  needs  it  mo. 
of  us,"  he  added,  almost  to  himself. 

It  was  strange  that  Yolande  made  no  offer — howeve. 
— of  her  services,  and  did  not  even  thank  him  for  his  con 
tion.     No;  she  sat  mute,  her  eyes  averted;  she  let  thest 
discuss  the  matter  between  themselves. 

"I  am  paying  an  additional  £80,"  said  Shortlands,  "to  ha  c 
the  sheep  kept  off,  so  that  we  may  have  a  better  chance  at  tin 
deer.  Fancy  all  that  stretch  of  land  only  able  to  provide  £80 
of  grazing!  I  wonder  what  some  of  tlie  fellows  on  your  sid(! 
of  the  House,  Winterbourne,  would  say  to  that 2  Gad,  I'll  tell 
you,  now,  what  I'd  like  to  see:  I'd  like  to  see  the  six  hundred 
and  sixty-six  members  of  the  House  of  Commons  put  on  to  Allt- 
nam-ba,  and  compelled  to  get  their  living  off  it  for  five  years." 

"  They  wouldn't  try,"  said  his  friend,  contemptuously. 
"  They'd  only  talk.  One  honorable  member  would  make  a 
speech  three  columns  long  to  prove  that  it  was  the  duty  of  the 
right  honorable  gentleman  opposite  to  begin  rolling  off  a  few 
granite  bowlders;  and  the  right  honorable  gentleman  opposite 
would  make  a  speech  six  columns  long  to  show  that  there  was 


YOLANDE.  419 

no  parliamentary  precedent  for  such  a  motion  ;  and  an  Irishman 
would  get  up  to  show  that  any  labor  at  all  expended  on  a  Scotch 
moor  was  an  injury  done  to  the  Irish  fisheries,  and  another  rea- 
son why  the  Irish  revenues  should  be  managed  by  a  committee 
of  his  countryman  meeting  in  Dublin.  They'd  talk  the  heather 
bare  before  they'd  grow  an  ear  of  corn." 

"  By-the-way,"  said  John  Shortlands,  who  had  now  finished  his 
supper  and  was  ready  to  go  outside  and  smoke  a  pipe  in  the 
balcony  overlooking  the  Grand  Canal,  "  I  wonder  if  I  shall  be 
able  to  curry  favor  with  that  excellent  person,  Mrs.  Bell  ?" 

''But  why?"  said  Yolande,  speaking  for  the  first  time  since 
this  Allt-nam-ba  project  was  mentioned. 

"  Oh,  that  she  might  perhaps  give  Edwards  and  them  a  few 
directions  when  they  go  to  get  the  place  ready  for  us.  I  dare 
say  they  will  find  it  awkward  at  first." 

"  I  am  sure  Mrs.  Bell  will  be  very  glad  to  do  that,"  Yolande 
said  at  once.  "  If  you  like  I  will  write  to  her  when  the  time 
comes." 

"  She  would  do  it  for  your  sake,  anyway,"  \\^  said.  "  Well, 
it  would  be  odd  if  we  should  have  just  the  same  party  in  the 
evenings  that  we  used  to  have  last  year.  They  Avcre  very  snug, 
those  evenings — I  suppose  because  we  knew  we  were  so  far  out 
of  the  world,  and  a  small  community  by  ourselves.  I  hope  Jack 
Melville  will  still  be  there — my  heart  warmed  to  that  fellow ; 
he's  got  the  right  stuff  in  him,  as  we  say  in  the  North.  And 
the  Master — we  must  give  the  Master  a  turn  on  the  hill — I  have 
never  seen  his  smart  shooting  that  you  talked  so  much  about, 
Winterbourne.  Wonder  if  he  ever  takes  a  walk  up  to  the  lodge  ? 
Should  think  it  must  be  pretty  cold  up  there  just  now  ;  and 
cold  enough  at  Lynn,  for  the  matter  of  that." 

"But  Mr.  Leslie  isn't  at  Lynn,  is  he?"  said  Yolande,  sud- 
denly. 

"  Where  is  he,  then  ?" 

"  lie  had  started  on  a  yachting  cruise  Avlicn  T  last  heard  from 
hini,"  Yolande  said.  "  Why,  we  had  half  hoped  to  find  him  in 
Venice ;  and  then  it  would  have  been  strange — the  Allt-nam-ba 
party  all  together  again  in  Venice.  But  perhaps  he  is  still  at 
Naples — he  spoke  of  going  to  Naples." 

"I  don't  know  about  Naples,"  said  Shortlands,  "but  he  was 
in  Inverness  last  week." 

"  In  Inverness  1     No;  it  is  impossible  !" 

"  Oh,  biit  it  is  certain.  He  wrote  tome  from  Inverness  about 
the  irilvitiij,-  of  the  shooting." 

"  Not  from  Lynn  V  said  Yolande,  rather  wonderingly. 


420  YOLANDE. 

"  No.  He  said  in  his  letter  that  he  had  happened  to  call  in 
at  Macpherson's  office — that  is  their  agent,  you  know — and  had 
seen  the  correspondence  about  the  shooting ;  and  it  was  then 
that  he  suggested  the  advisability  of  keeping  the  sheep  off  Allt- 
nam-ba." 

"  It  is  strange,"  Yolande  said,  thoughtfully.  "  But  he  was 
not  well  satisfied  with  his  companion — no — not  at  all  comfort- 
able in  the  yacht — and  perhaps  he  went  back  suddenly."  And 
then  she  added — for  she  was  obviously  puzzled  about  this  mat- 
ter— "  Was  he  staying  in  Inverness  ?" 

"  Indeed  I  don't  know,"  was  the  answer. 

"  Did  he  write  from  the  Station  Hotel  ?"  she  asked  again, 
glancing  at  him. 

"  No ;  he  wrote  from  Macpherson's  office,  I  think.  You  know 
he  used  often  to  go  up  to  Inverness,  to  look  after  affairs." 

"  Yes,"  said  Yolande,  absently  :  she  was  wondering  whether 
it  was  possible  that  he  still  kept  up  that  aimless  feud  with  his 
relatives — aimless,  now  that  the  occasion  of  it  was  forever  re- 
moved. 

And  then  they  went  out  on  to  the  wide  balcony,  where  the  peo- 
ple were  sitting  at  little  tables,  smoking  cigarettes  and  sipping 
their  coffee  ;  and  all  around  was  a  cluster  of  gondolas  that  had 
been  stopped  by  their  occupants  in  going  by,  for  in  one  of  the 
gondolas,  moored  to  the  front  of  the  balcony,  was  a  party  of 
three  minstrels,  and  the  clear,  penetrating,  fine-toned  voice  of  a 
woman  rose  above  the  sounds  of  the  violins,  and  the  guitar,  with 
the  old  familiar 

"  Mare  si  placido, 
Vento  si  caro 
Scordar  fa  i  triboli 
Al  marina ro" 

— and  beyond  this  dense  cluster  of  boats — out  on  the  pale  wa- 
ters of  the  Canal — here  and  there  a  gondola  glided  noiselessly 
along,  the  golden  star  of  its  lamp  moving  swiftly  ;  and  on  the 
other  side  of  the  Canal  the  Church  of  Santa  Maria  del  la  Salute 
thrust  its  heavy  masses  of  shadow  out  into  the  white  moonlight. 
They  were  well  acquainted  with  this  scene ;  and  yet  the  wonder 
and  charm  of  it  never  seemed  to  fade.  There  are  certain  things 
that  repetition  and  familiarity  do  not  affect — the  strangeness  of 
the  dawn,  for  example,  or  the  appearance  of  the  first  primrose 
in  the  woods ;  and  the  sight  of  Venice  in  moonlight  is  another 
of  these  things^'>-for  it  is  the  most  mysterious  and  the  most 
beautiful  picture  that  the  world  can  show. 


t) 


YOLANDE,  421 

By-and-by  the  music  ceased  ;  there  was  a  little  collection  of 
money  for  the  performers ;  and  then  the  golden  stars  of  the 
gondola  stole  away  in  their  several  directions  over  the  placid 
waters.  Mr.  Winterbourne  and  Yolande  summoned  theirs  also, 
for  it  was  getting  late  ;  and  presently  they  were  gliding  swiftly 
and  silently  through  the  still  moonlight  night. 

"  Papa,"  said  Yolande,  gently,  "  I  hope  you  Avill  go  with  Mr. 
Shortlands  in  the  autumn,  for  it  is  very  kind  of  him  to  ask  you ; 
but  I  would  rather  not  go.  Indeed,  you  must  not  ask  me  to  go. 
But  it  will  not  matter  to  you ;  I  shall  not  weary  until  you  come 
back ;  I  will  stay  in  London,  or  wherever  you  like." 

"  Why  don't  you  wish  to  go  to  Allt-nam-ba,  Yolande  ?"  said 
he. 

There  was  no  answer. 

"  I  thought  you  were  very  happy  up  there,"  he  said,  regarding 
her. 

But,  though  the  moonlight  touched  her  face,  her  eyes  were 
cast  down,  and  he  could  not  make  out  what  she  was  thinking — 
perhaps  even  if  her  lips  were  tremulous  he  might  have  failed  to 
notice. 

"  Yes,"  said  she,  at  length,  and  in  a  rather  low  voice,  "  perhaps 
I  was.  But  I  do  not  wish  to  go  again.  You  will  be  kind  and 
not  ask  me  to  go  again,  papa  ?" 

"  My  dear  child,"  said  he,  "  I  know  more  than  you  think — 
a  great  deal  more  than  you  think.  Now  I  am  going  to  ask  you 
a  question :  if  John  Melville  were  to  ask  you  to  be  his  wife, 
would  you  then  have  any  objection  to  going  to  Allt-nam-ba?" 

She  started  back,  and  looked  at  him  for  a  second,  with  an 
alarmed  expression  in  her  face  ;  but  the  next  moment  she  had 
dropped  her  eyes. 

"  You  know  you  can  not  expect  me  to  answer  such  a  question 
as  that,"  she  said,  not  without  some  touch  of  wounded  pride. 

"But  he  has  asked  you,  Yolande,"  her  father  said,  quietly. 
"  There  is  a  letter  for  you  at  the  hotel.  It  is  in  my  writing-case ; 
it  has  been  there  for  a  month  or  six  weeks ;  it  was  to  be  given 
you  whenever — well,  whenever  I  thought  it  most  expedient  to 
give  it  to  you.  And  I  don't  see  why  you  shouldn't  have  it  now 
— as  soon  as  we  go  back  to  the  hotel.  And  if  you  don't  want 
to  go  to  the  Highlands,  for  fear  of  meeting  Jack  Melville,  as  I 
iirfagine,  here  is  a  proposal  that  may  put  matters  straight.  Will 
it?" 

Her  head  was  still  held  down,  and  she  said,  in  almost  an  in- 
audible voice, 

"  Would  you  approve,  papa?" 


422  YOLANDE. 

"  Nay,  I'm  not  goinnrto  interfere  again  !"  said  he,  with  a  laugh. 

"  Choose  for  yourself.  I  know  more  now  than  I  did.  I  have 
had  some  matters  explained  to  me,  and  I  have  guessed  at  others; 
and  I  have  a  letter,  too,  from  the  Master — a  very  frank  and 
honest  letter,  and  saying  all  sorts  of  nice  things  ahout  you, 
too,  Yolande — yes,  and  about  Melville,  too,  for  the  matter  of 
that.  I  am  glad  there  will  be  no  ill-feeling,  whatever  happens. 
So  you  must  choose  for  yourself,  child,  without  let  or  hinderance 
— whatever  you  think  is  most  for  your  happiness — what  you 
most  wish  for  yourself — that  is  what  I  approve  of — " 

"  But  would  you  not  rather  that  I  remained  with  you,  papa  ?" 
she  said,  though  she  had  not  yet  courage  to  raise  her  eyes. 

"  Oh,  I  have  had  enough  of  you,  you  baggage !"  he  said, 
good-naturedly.  "  Do  you  expect  me  always  to  keep  dragging 
you  with  me  about  Europe  ?  Haven't  we  discussed  all  that 
before  ?  Nay,  but,  Yolande,"  he  added,  in  another  manner,  *'  fol- 
low what  your  own  heart  tells  you  to  do.  That  will  be  your 
safest  guide." 

They  reached  the  hotel,  and  when  they  ascended  to  their  suite 
of  rooms  he  brought  her  the  letter.  She  read  it — carefully  and 
yet  eagerly,  and  with  a  flushed  forehead  and  a  beating  heart — 
while  he  lit  a  cigarette  and  went  to  the  window,  to  look  over  at 
the  moonlit  walls  and  massive  shadows  of  San  Giorgio.  There 
was  a  kind  of  joy  in  her  face ;  but  she  did  not  look  up.  She 
read  the  letter  again — and  again ;  studying  the  phrases  of  it ; 
and  always  with  a  warmth  at  her  heart — of  pride,  and  gratitude, 
and  a  desire  to  sa}^  something  to  some  one  who  was  far  rway. 

"  Well  ?"  her  father  said,  coming  back  from  the  window,  and 
appearing  to  take  matters  very  coolly. 

She  went  to  him,  and  kissed  him,  and  hid  her  face  in  his 
breast. 

"  I  think,  papa,"  said  she,  "  I — I  think  I  will  go  with  you  to 
AUt-nam-ba." 


CHAPTER  LI. 


CONCLUSION. 


Now,  it  is  not  possible  to  wind  up  this  history  in  the  ap- 
proved fashion,  because  the  events  chronicled  in  it  are  of  some- 
what. recent  occurrence — indeed,  at  the  present  writing  the  Win- 
terbournes  and  John  Shorthmds  are  still  lookino-  forward  to  their 


YOLANDE.  423 

flight  to  Allt-nam-ba,  when  Parliament  has  ceased  talking  foif 
the  year.  But  at  least  the  story  may  be  brought  as  far  as  possi-- 
ble  "  up  to  date."  And  first,  as  regards  the  Master  of  Lynn. 
When,  on  that  evening  in  Venice,  Yolande  had  imagined  that  ho 
was  in  Naples,  and  John  Shortlands  had  affirmed  that  he  was  in 
Inverness,  he  was  neither  in  one  nor  the  other.  He  was  in  a 
hotel  in  Princes  Street,  Edinburgh,  in  a  sitting-room  on  the  first 
floor,  lying  extended  on  a  sofa,  and  smoking  a  big  cigar,  while  ;■. 
cup  of  coffee  that  had  been  brought  him  by  affectionate  hand-; 
stood  on  a  small  table  just  beside  him.  And  Shena  Van,  having  iii 
vain  cudgelled  her  brains  for  fitting  terms  of  explanation  and 
apology,  which  she  wished  to  send  to  her  brother,  the  Professor, 
had  risen  from  the  writing-desk  and  gone  to  the  window  ;  and 
was  now  standing  there  contemplating  the  wonderful  panorama 
without — the  Scott  monument,  touched  with  the  moonlight,  the 
deep  shadows  in  the  valky,  the  ranges  of  red  windows  in  the 
tall  houses  beyond,  and  the  giant  bulk  of  the  Castle  Hill  reach- 
ing away  up  into  the  clear  skies. 

"  Shena,"  says  he,  "  what  o'clock  is  it  ?" 

"  A  quarter  past  nine,"  she  answers,  dutifully,  with  a  glance 
at  the  clock  on  the  chimney-piece. 

"  Capital !"  he  says,  with  a  kind  of  sardonic  laugh.  "  Excel- 
lent !  A  quarter  past  nine.  Don't  you  feel  a  slight  vibration, 
Shena,  as  if  the  earth  were  going  to  blow  up  ?  1  wonder  you 
don't  tremble  to  think  of  the  explosion  !" 

"  Oh  yes,  there  will  be  plenty  of  noise,"  says  Shena  Van,  con- 
tentedly. 

"  And  what  a  stroke  of  luck  to  have  the  Grahams  at  Lynn  ! 
Bagging  the  whole  covey  with  one  carriage !  It  will  soon  be 
twenty  past.  I  can  see  the  whole  thing.  They  haven't  left  the 
dining-room  yet;  his  lordship  must  always  open  the  newspapers 
himself ;  and  the  women-folk  keep  on,  to  hear  whether  Queen 
Anne  has  come  alive  or  not.  Twenty  past,  isn't  it?  '  Ilang 
that  fellow,  Lammer!'  his  lordship  growls.  'He's  always  lare. ' 
Drinking  whiskey  at  Whitebridge,  I  suppose.  I'll  send  him 
about  his  business — that's  what  it'll  come  to.'  Then  his  lord- 
ship has  another  half-glass  of  port-wine;  and  Polly  thinks  she'll 
run  up-stairs  for  a  minute  to  see  that  the  blessed  baby  is  all 
right;  and  we'll  say  she's  at  the  door  when  they  hear  wheels 
outside,  and  so  she  stands  and  waits  for  the  letters  and  papers. 
All  right ;  don't  be  in  a  hurry,  Polly  ;  you'll  get  something  to 
talk  about  presently." 

He  raised  himself  and  sat  up  on  the  sofa,  so  as  to  get  a 
glimpse  of  the  clock  opposite ;  and  Shena  Van — whose  proper 


424  YO  LANDS. 

title  by  this  time  was  Janet  Leslie — came  and  stood  by  him,  and 
put  her  hand  on  his  shoulder. 

"  Will  they  be  very  angry,  Archie  ?"  she  says. 

He  had  his  eye  fixed  on  the  clock. 

"  By  Jove,"  he  says,  "  I  wish  I  was  one  of  those  fellows  who 
write  for  the  stage;  I  would  tell  you  what's  happening  at  this 
very  minute,  Shena  !  I  can  see  the  whole  thing — Polly  gets  the 
letters  and  papers,  and  goes  back — '  Papa,  here  is  a  letter  from 
Archie — from  Edinburgh — what  is  he  doing  in  Edinburgh  ? ' 
And  then  his  papaship  opens  the  letter — '  My  dear  father, — I 
have  the  honor  to  inform  you — '  '  What ! '  he  roars,  like  a  stag 
lost  in  the  mist.  Why,  don't  you  hear  them,  Shena  ? — they're 
»11  at  it  now — their  tongues  going  like  wild-fire — Aunty  Tab 
swearing  she  knew  it  would  come  to  this — I  was  never  under 
proper  government,  and  all  the  rest — Polly  rather  inclined  to  say 
it  serves  them  right,  but  rather  afraid — Graham  suggesting  that 
they'd  better  make  the  best  of  it,  now  it  couldn't  be  helped — " 

"  Oh,  do  you  think  he'll  say  that,  Archie  ?"  said  she,  anx- 
iously.    "Do  you  think  he'll  be  on  our  side?" 

"  My  dear  girl,"  said  he,  "  I  don't  care  the  fifteenth  pai-t  of  a 
brass  farthing  which  of  them,  or  whether  any  one  of  them,  is 
on  our  side.  Not  a  bit.  It's  done.  Indeed,  I  hope  they'll 
howl  and  squawk  to  their  hearts'  content.  I  should  be  sorry  if 
they  didn't." 

"  But  you  know,  Archie,"  said  Shena  Van — who  had  her 
own  little  share  of  worldly  wisdom — "if  you  don't  get  recon- 
ciled to  your  friends,  people  will  say  that  you  only  got  married 
out  of  spite." 

"Well,  let  them,"  said  he,  cheerfully.  "You  and  I  know 
better,  Shena — what  matters  it  what  they  say  ?  I  know  what 
Jack  Melville  will  say.  They  won't  get  much  comfort  out  of 
him.  '  No  one  has  got  two  lives ;  why  shouldn't  he  make  the 
most  of  the  one  he's  got ;  why  shouldn't  he  marry  the  girl  he's 
fond  of  ? ' — that's  about  all  they'll  get  out  of  him.  Polly  needn't 
try  to  throw  the  Corrievreak  fly  over  him.  W'cll,  now,  Shena, 
when  one  thinks  of  it,  what  strange  creatures  people  are ! 
There's  Corrievreak;  it's  a  substantial  thing;  it's  worth  a  heap 
of  solid  money,  and  it  might  be  made  worth  more ;  and  there  it 
was,  offered  to  our  family,  you  may  say,  to  keep  in  our  posses- 
sion porhaps  for  centuries.  And  what  interfered?  W^hy,  an 
impalpable  thing  like  politics  !  Opinions — things  you  couldn't 
touch  with  your  ten  fingers  if  you  tried  a  month — a  mere  pre- 
judice on  the  part  of  my  father — and  these  solid  advantiiges  are 
thrust  away. 


YOLANDE.  425 

The  abstract  question  had  no  interest  for  Shena  Van. 

"  I  hope  you  do  not  regret  it,"  she  said,  rather  proudly. 

"  Do  I  speak  as  if  I  regretted  it  ?  No  ;  not  much  !  It  was 
that  trip  to  Carlisle  that  did  it,  Shena — that  showed  me  what 
was  the  right  thing  to  do.  And  after  you  left  wasn't  I  wild 
that  I  had  not  had  more  courage !  And  then  Owley  became 
more  and  more  intolerable — but  I  dare  say  you  were  the  cause 
of  it,  you  know,  in  part — and  then  I  said  to  myself,  '  Well,  I 
am  off  to  Aberdeen ;  and  if  Shena  has  any  kind  of  recollection 
of  the  old  days  in  her  heart,  why,  I'll  ask  her  to  settle  the 
thing  at  once.'  " 

"  Yes,  but  why  wouldn't  you  let  me  tell  ray  brother  ?"  Shena 
Van  pleaded. 

"Telling  one  would  have  been  telling  everybody,"  said  he, 
promptly,  "  and  they  would  have  been  at  their  old  games.  Now, 
you  see,  it  isn't  of  the  least  consequence  what  they  do  or  say — 
if  they  tear  their  hair  out  it'll  only  hurt  their  own  heads.  And 
I  don't  see  why  you  should  worry  about  that  letter.  Why 
should  you  make  apologies  ?  Why  should  you  pretend  to  be 
sorry — ^when  you're  not  ?  If  it  bothers  you  to  write  the  letter, 
send  a  copy  of  this  morning's  Scotsman  ;  that's  quite  enough. 
Send  them  all  this  morning's  Scotsman  ;  and  you  needn't  mark 
it;  it  will  be  all  the  pleasanter  surprise  for  them.  When  they've 
finished  with  the  leading  articles,  and  the  news,  and  the  criti- 
cisms of  the  picture-exhibitions,  and  when  they've  looked  to  see 
liow  many  more  ministers  of  the  Gospel  have  been  writing  letters 
and  quarrelling  like  Kilkenny  cats,  then  they'll  stray  on  to  a 
nice  little  paragraph — '  What ! — aS^^  Giles's  Church — Archibald 
Leslie  to  Janet  Stewart ! ' — oh,  snakes  !" 

"  But  you  wrote  to  your  people,  Archie,"  Shena  Van  said, 
looking  wistfully  at  the  sheet  of  note-paper  that  she  had  in  vain 
endeavored  to  fill  with  apologies  and  appeals  for  pardon. 

"  Well,  yes,  I  did,"  the  Master  of  Lynn  admitted,  with  a  pecu- 
liar smile.  "I  could  not  resist  the  temptation.  But  you  mis- 
take altogether,  Shena,  if  you  imagine  that  it  was  to  make 
apology  that  I  wrote.  Oh  no ;  it  was  not  that ;  it  was  only  to 
convey  information.  It  was  my  filial  duty  that  prompted  me  to 
write.  Besides,  I  wished  the  joyful  tidings  to  reach  Aunty  Tabby 
as  soon  as  possible — oh,  don't  you  make  any  mistake,  Shena — 
she's  worth  a  little  consideration — she  has  a  little  money  of  her 
own — oh  yes,  she  may  do  something  for  us  yet !" 

"  I  don't  like  to  hear  you  talk  of  your  relations  in  that  way, 
Archie,"  said  Shena  Van,  rather  sadly,  "  for  if  you  think   of 


426  YOLANDE. 

tliem  Jiketliat,  how  are  you  ever  to  be  reconciled  to  them?  And 
you  told  me  it  would  be  all  right." 

"And  so  it  will,  my  dear  girl,"  said  he,  good-naturedly.  "  And 
this  is  the  only  way  to  put  it  all  right.  AVlien  they  see  that  the 
thing  is  done,  then  they'll  come  to  their  senses.  Polly  will  be 
the  first.  She  always  mahes  the  best  of  matters — sfie's  a  liood 
little  soul.  And  his  lordship  won't  do  anything  desperate ;  he 
won't  be  such  a  fool  as  to  drive  me  to  raise  money  on  my  exj.cc 
tations;  and  he'll  soon  be  glad  enough  to  have  me  back  at  Lynn 
— the  people  there  want  some  looking  after,  as  he  knows.  Be- 
sides, he  ought  to  be  in  a  good-humor  just  now — both  the  forest 
and  Allt-nam-ba  let  already,  and  Ardengreanan  as  good  as  taken." 

"But  I  must  write — I  must  write,"  said  Shena,  regarding  the 
paper  again. 

"  Well,  it's  quite  simple,"  said  he.  "  Tell  your  brother  that, 
when  you  left  Aberdeen,  instead  of  going  either  to  Inverness  or 
to  Strathaylort,  you  came  here  to  Edinburgh,  and  were  married, 
as  per  enclosed  cutting  from  the  Scotsman.  The  cause  ? — ur- 
gent family  reasons,  which  will  be  explained.  Then  you  ask 
him  to  be  good  enough  to  communicate  this  news  to  your  sister, 
and  also  to  send  a  message  to  the  Manse;  but  as  for  apologizing, 
or  anything  of  that  kind,  I'd  see  them  hanged  first.  Besides, 
it  isn't  good  policy.  It  isn't  wise  to  treat  your  relatives  like 
that,  and  lead  them  to  think  they  have  a  right  to  remonstrate 
with  you.  It's  your  business  ;  not  theirs.  You  have  quite  ar- 
rived at  years  of  discretion,  my  darling  Shena;  and  if  you  don't 
want  people  to  be  forever  jumping  on  you — that  is,  metaphori- 
cally, I  mean — stop  it  at  the  beginning,  and  with  decision. 
Here,"  said  he,  suddenly  getting  up  and  going  over  to  the  writ- 
ing-table, "  I'll  write  the  letter  for  you !" 

"  Oh  no,  Archie  1"  she  cried,  interposing.  "  You  will  only 
make  them  angry." 

"My  dear  child,"  said  he,  pushing  her  away,  "honey  and  mo- 
lasses are  a  fool  to  what  I  can  write  when  I  want  to  be  civil ; 
and  at  the  present  moment  I  should  like  to  shake  hands  with  the 
whole  human  race." 

So  he  wrote  the  letter,  and  wrote  it  very  civilly,  too,  and  to 
Shena's  complete  satisfaction;  and  then  ho  said,  as  he  finished 
his  coffee, 

"  r  don't  think  we  shall  stay  long  in  Paris,  Shena.  I  don't 
like  Paris.  You  won't  find  it  half  as  fine  a  town  to  look  at  as 
this  is  now.  And  if  you  go  the  threatre,  it's  all  spectacle  and 
ballet;  or  else  it's  the  story  of  a  married  woman  running  away 
with  a  lover;  and  that  isn't  the  kind  of  thing  you  ought  to  seo 


YOLANDE.  427 

■->\\  \y:^  \v;"{| (ling- trip,  is  it?  There's  no  saying  how  far  the 
i■•:•:-^  uf  example  might  go;  and  you  see  you  began  your  wedded 
life  by  running  away." 

"it  was  none  of  my  doing,  Archie,"  said  Shcna  Van, 
quickly. 

"  No,"  said  he.  "  I  think  we'll  come  back  to  London  soon ; 
for  everybady  will  be  there  at  the  opening  of  the  session,  and  I 
want  to  introduce  you  to  some  friends  of  mine.  Jack  Melville 
says  he  is  going  up,  and  he  pretends  it's  about  his  electric  light- 
ing performance;  but  I  suspect  it's  more  to  meet  the  Winter- 
bournes,  when  they  come  back  from  abroad,  than  to  see  the 
directors  of  the  company.  If  they  do  adopt  his  system,  I 
hope  he'll  make  them  fork  out,  for  he  is  not  overburdened  with 
the  gear  of  this  wicked  world  any  more  than  myself.  Faith,  I 
wish  my  Right  Honorable  papa  would  hand  along  the  cost  of 
that  special  license,  for  it  was  all  his  doing.  But  iiever  mind, 
Shena;  we'll  tide  along  somehow;  and  when  we  come  back 
from  our  trip,  if  they  are  still  showing  their  teeth,  like  a  badger 
in  a  hole,  I  know  what  I'll  do — we'll  go  over  to  the  West  of 
Ireland  for  the  salmon-fishing,  and  we  can  live  cheaply  enough 
in  one  of  the  hotels  there,  either  on  the  Shannon  or  out  in  Con- 
nemara.     How  would  you  like  that?" 

"Oh,  I  should  be  delighted !"  said  Shena  Van,  with  the  dark, 
wonderful  blue  eyes  lil!  •  I  with  pleasure.  "For  I'm  afraid  to  go 
back  to  Inverness,  and  tiiat's  the  truth,  Archie." 

"  Oh,  but  we  shall  iiave  to  go  back  to  Inverness,  all  in  good 
time,"  said  he,  "  and  it  won't  do  to  be  afraid  of  anything.  And 
I  think  you'll  hold  your  own,  Shena,"  he  added,  approvingly. 
"  I  think  you'll  hold  your  own."- 

And  so  at  this  point  we  may  bid  good-by  to  these  adventurers 
(who  seemed  pleased  enougli  with  such  fortune  as  had  befallen 
them),  and  come  along  to  another  couple  who,  a  few  weeks 
later,  were  walking  one  evening  on  the  terrace  of  the  House  of 
Commons.  It  was  a  dusky  and  misty  night,  though  it  was  mild 
for  that  time  of  the  year;  the  heavens  were  overclouded;  tlie 
hghts  on  Westminster  Bridge  and  on  the  Embankment  did  little 
to  dispel  the  pervading  gloom,  though  the  quivering  golden  re- 
flections on  the  black  river  looked  picturesque  enough;  and  in 
this  dense  obscurity  feuch  Members  and  their  friends  as  ha^ 
come  out  from  the  heated  atmosphere  of  the  House  to  have  a 
chat  or  a  cigar  on  the  terrace  were  only  indistinguishable  figures 
who  could  not  easily  be  recognized.  They,  for  the  most  part, 
were  seated  on  one  or  other  of  the  benches  standing  about,  or 
idly  leaning  against  the  parapet;  but  these  two  kept  walking 


428  YOLANDE, 

up  and  down  in  front  of  the  vast  and  shadowy  building  and  tho 
gloomy  windows,  and  they  were  arm-in-arm. 

"  A  generation  hence,"  said  one  of  them,  looking  at  the  murky 
scene  all  around  them,  "  Londoners  won't  believe  that  their  city 
could  ever  have  been  as  black  a  pit  as  this  is." 

''But  this  generation  will  see  the  change,  will  it  not?"  said  his 
couipanion,  whose  voice  had  just  a  trace  of  a  foreign  accent  in 
it.     "You  are  going  to  make  the  transformation,  are  you  not?" 

"  I  ?"  said  he,  laughing.  "  I  don't  know  how  many  are  all 
trying  at  it ;  and  whoever  succeeds  in  getting  what  is  really 
wanted  will  be  a  wonder-worker,  I  can  tell  you.  What's  more, 
he  will  be  a  very  rich  man.  You  don't  seem  to  think  about 
that,  Yolande." 

"  About  what,  then  ?" 

"  Why,  that  you  are  going  to  marry  a  very  poor  man." 

"  No,  I  do  not  care  at  all,"  she  said,  or  rather  what  she  did 
say  was,  "  I  do  not  care  aytall " — despite  the  tuition  of  her 
father. 

"  That  is  because  you  don't  understand  what  it  means,"  said 
he,  in  a  kindly  way.  "  You  have  had  no  possibility  of  knowing. 
You  can't  have  any  knowledge  of  what  it  is  to  have  a  limited 
income — to  have  to  watch  small  economies,  and  the  like." 

"  Ah,  indeed,  then  !"  said  she.  "  And  my  papa  always  angry 
with  me  for  my  economies,  and  the  care  and  the  thrift  that  the 
ladies  at  the  Chateau  exercised  always  !  '  Miser,'  he  says  to  me 
— '  miser  that  you  are  ! '  Oh,  I  am  not  afraid  of  being  poor — 
not  aytall  F' 

"  I  have  a  chance,"  he  said,  absently.  "  So  far,  indeed,  I  have 
been  lucky.  And  the  public  are  hanging  back  just  now ;  they 
have  seen  so  many  bad  experiments  that  they  won't  rush  at  any 
one  system  without  examining  the  others;  it's  the  best  one  that 
will  win  in  the  end.  But  it's  only  a  chance,  after  all.  Yolande," 
said  he,  "  I  wonder  if  I  was  born  to  be  your  evil  genius?  It  was 
I  who  sent  you  away  from  your  own  home — where  you  were 
happy  enough  ;  and  you  must  have  suffered  a  terrible  anxiety  all 
that  time — I  can  see  the  change  in  you." 

"  Oh,  but  I  will  not  have  you  speak  like  that,"  said  she,  putting 
her  other  hand  on  his  arm.  "  How  can  you  speak  like  that  to 
Tjie  when  it  is  night  and  day  that  I  can  not  tell  you  how  grateful 
\  am  to  you  ?  Yes ;  it  was  you  who  sent  me ;  if  I  had  not  loved 
/ou  before*  i.  should  love  you  for  that  now — with  —,  hole 
iieart.     If  you  had  known — if  you  had  seen — wh;  was 

to  m.y  poor  mother  that  I  was  with  her  for  that  tii  we 

were  together — and  she  happy  and  cheerful  for  the  for 


v^ 


^■1^; 


YOLANDE.  \  W  ^  429 

many,  many  sad  years — if  you  had  seen  the  gladness  in  her  face 
every  morning  when  she  saw  me — then  perhaps^y«tfc-Y^uM  have 
understood.  And  if  I  had  not  gone  to  her — if  I  had  never 
known  her — if  she  had  never  had  that  Uttle  happiness — would 
that  not  have  been  a  sad  thing  ?  That  she  might  have  died 
among  strangers — and  I,  her  own  daughter,  amusing  myself  with 
friends  and  idleness  and  pleasure  somewhere — it  is  too  terrible 
to  think  of !  And  who  prevented  that  ?  It  is  not  my  gratitude 
only,  it  is  hers  also  that  I  give  you,  that  I  offer  you.  You  made 
her  happy  for  a  time,  when  she  had  need  of  some  kindness ;  and 
you  can  not  expect  that  I  shall  forget  it." 

"  You  are  too  generous,"  he  said.  "  It  is  a  small  matter  to 
offer  advice.  /  sacrificed  nothing;  the  burden  of  it  fell  on 
you.  But  I  will  be  honest  with  you.  I  guessed  that  you 
would  have  anxiety  and  trouble ;  but  I  knew  you  would  be  brave 
enough  to  face  it;  and  I  knew,  too,  that  you  would  not  after- 
ward regret  whatever  you  might  have  come  through,  and  I 
know  that  you  don't  regret  it  now.  I  know  you  well  enough 
for  that." 

"  x\nd  some  day,"  she  said,  "  or  perhaps  through  many  and 
many  years,  I  will  try  to  show  you  what  value  1  put  on  your 
opinion  of  me ;  and  if  I  do  not  always  deserve  that  you  think 
well  of  me,  at  least  I  shall  try  to  deserve  it — can  I  promise 
more  ?" 

At  this  moment  John  Shortlands  made  his  appearance ;  he 
had  come  out  from  the  smoking-room,  with  a  cigar  in  his  mouth. 

"Look  here,  Yolande,"  he  said.  "I  suppose  you  don't  want 
to  hear  any  more  of  the  debate  ?" 

"  No,  no,"  she  said,  quickly.  "  It  is  stupid — stupid.  Why  do 
they  not  say  what  they  mean  at  once — not  stumbling  here,  stum- 
bling there,  and  all  the  others  talking  among  themselves,  and  as 
if  everybody  were  going  asleep?" 

"  It's  lively  enough  sometimes,  I  can  assure  you,"  he  said. 
"  However,  your  father  thinks  it's  no  use  your  waiting  any 
longer.  He's  determined  to  wait  until  the  division  is  taken  ;  and 
no  one  knows  now  when  it  will  be.  He  says  you'd  better  go 
l)ac\  to  your  hotel — I  suppose  Mr.  Melville  will  see  you  so 
far.  Well,"  said  he,  addressing  Jack  Melville,  "  what  do  you 
think  of  the  dinner  Wintcrbourne  got  for  you  ?" 

"  I  wasn't  thinking  of  it  much,"  Jack  Melville  said.  "  I  was 
more  interested  in  the  Members.  I  haven't  been  near  the  House 
of  Commons  since  I  used  to  come  up  from  Oxford  for  the  boat- 
race." 

"  How's  the  company  goino:  ?" 


430  YOLANDE.  ' 

"  Pretty  well,  I  think ;  but  of  course  I've  nothing  to  do  witi 
that.     I  have  no  capital  to  invest." 

"Except  brains;  and  sometimes  that's  as  good  as  bank-notes. 
Well,"  said  Shortlands,  probably  remembering  an  adage  about  the 
proper  number  for  company,  "I'll  bid  ye  good-night — for  Tn. 
going  back  to  the  mangle — I  may  take  a  turn  at  it  myself." 

So  Jack  Melville  and  Yolande  together  set  out  to  find  their 
v/ ay  through  the  corridors  of  the  House  out  into  the  niglil- 
woild  of  London;  and  when  they  were  in  Palace-yard  Yo 
lande  said  she  would  just  as  soon  walk  up  to  the  hotel  whore 
her  father  and  herself  were  staying,  for  it  was  no  farther  away 
than  Albemarle  Street. 

"Did  you  hear  what  Mr.  Shortlands  said?"  she  asked, 
brighly.  "  Perhaps,  after  all,  then,  there  is  to  be  no  romance  ? 
I  am  not  to  be  like  the  heroine  of  a  book,  who  is  approved 
because  she  marries  a  poor  man  ?  I  am  not  to  make  any  such 
nol)le  sacrifice  ?" 

"  Don't  be  too  sure,  Yolande,"  said  he,  good-naturedly. 
"  Companies  are  kittle  cattle  to  deal  with ;  and  an  inventor's 
business  is  still  more  uncertain.  There  is  a  chance,  as  I  say  ; 
but  it  is  only  a  chance.  However,  if  that  fails,  there  will  be 
something  else.     I  am  not  afraid." 

"  And  I — am  I  afraid  ?"  she  said,  lightly  "  No  !  Because  I 
know  more  than  you — oh,  yes,  a  great  deal  more  than  you. 
And  perhaps  I  should  not  speak  ;  for  it  is  a  secret — no,  no,  it  is 
not  a  secret,  for  you  have  guessed  it — do  you  not  know  that 
you  have  Monaglen  ?" 

He  glanced  at  her  to  see  whether  she  was  merely  making  fun  ; 
but  he  saw  in  her  eyes  that  she  was  making  an  actual — if 
amused — inquiry. 

"  Well,  Yolande,"  said  he,  "  of  course  I  know  of  Mrs.  Bell's 
fantasy;  but  I  don't  choose  to  build  my  calculations  for  the 
future  on  a  fantasy." 

"  But,"  said  Yolande,  rather  shyly,  "  if  you  were  told  it  was 
done?  If  Monaglen  were  already  yours  ?  If  the  lawyers  had 
done — oh,  everything — all  settled — what  then  ?" 

"  '  What  then  ? '  I  would  refuse  to  take  it.  But  it  is  absurd. 
Mrs.  Bell  can  not  be  such  a  madwoman.  I  know  she  is  a  very 
kind  woman ;  and  there  is  in  her  nature  a  sort  of  romantic  at- 
tachment to  my  father's  family — which  I  rather  imagine  she 
has  cultivated  by  the  reading  of  those  old  songs.  Still  she  can 
not  have  done  anything  so  wild  as  that." 

"  She  has  bought  Monaglen,"  Yolande  said,  without  looking 
up. 


YOLANDE.  43t 

"  Very  well.     I  thought  she  would  do  that — if  she  heard  it 

^'  was  in  the  market.     Very  well.     Why  shouldn't  she  go  there 

— and  send  for  her  relatives,  if  she  has  any — and  be  a  grand 

lady  there  ?     I  have  met  more  than  one  grand  lady  who  hadn't 

half  her   natural  grace  of  manner,  nor  half  her  kindliness  of 

^"heart." 

"  It  is  very  sad,  then,"  said  Yolande  (who  was  afraid  to  drive 
hini  into  a  more  decided  and  definitive  opposition).  "  Here  is 
'  a  poor  woman  who  has  the  one  noble  ideal — the  dream  of  her 
'  life — it  has  been  her  hope  and  her  pleasure  for  many  and  many 
a  year ;  and  when  it  comes  near  to  completion — no — there  is 
an  obstacle — and  the  last  obstacle  that  one  could  have  imagined! 
Ah,  the  ingratitude  of  it !  It  has  been  her  romance ;  it  has 
been  the  charm  of  her  life.  She  has  no  husband,  no  children. 
She  has,  I  think,  not  any  relation  left.  And  because  you  are 
proud,  you  do  not  care  that  you  disappoint  her  of  the  one  hope 
of  her  life — that  you  break  her  heart  ?" 

"  Ah,  Yolande,"  said  he,  with  a  smile,  "  Mrs.  Bell  has  got  hold 
of  you  with  her  old  Scotch  songs — she  has  been  walking  you 
through  fairyland,  and  your  reason  has  got  perverted.  What 
do  you  think  people  would  say  if  I  were  to  take  away  ^this  poor 
woman's  money  from  her  relatives — or  from  her  friends  and  ac- 
quaintances, if  she  has  no  relatives  ?  It  is  too  al'surd.  If  I  were 
the  promoter  of  a  swindling  company,  now,  I  could  sliarpit  out 
of  her  that  way  ;  that  would  be  all  right,  and  I  should  remain  an 
honored  member  of  society  ;  but  this  won't  do — this  won't  do  at 
all.  You  may  be  as  dishonest  as  you  like,  and  so  long  as  you 
don't  give  the  law  a  grip  on  you,  and  so  long  as  you  keep  rich 
enough,  you  can  have  plenty  of  public  respect;  but  you  can't 
afford  to  become  ridiculous.  No,  no,  Yolande;  if  Mrs.  Bell  has 
bought  Monaglen,  let  her  keep  it.  I  hope  she  will  install  herself 
tliere,  and  play  Lady  Bountiful — she  can  do  that  naturally 
enough;  and  when  she  has  had  her  will  of  it,  then,  if  she  likes 
to  leave  it  to  me  at  her  death,  I  shall  be  her  obliged  and  humble 
servant.  But  in  the  mean  time,  my  dearest  Yolande,  as  you  and 
I  have  got  to  face  the  world  together,  I  think  we'd  better  have 
as  little  fantasy  around  us  as  possible — except  the  fantasy  of 
affection,  and  the  more  of  that  we  have  the  better."   . 

When  they  got  to  the  hotel  they  paused  outside  the  glass 
door  to  say  good-by. 

"  Good-night,  dearest  Yolande." 

"  Good-night,  dear  Jack." 

And  then  she  looked  up  at  this  broad-shouldered,  pale,  dark 


432  YOLANDE. 

man,  and  there  was  a  curious  smile  in  her  beautiful,  sweet,  and 
serious  face. 

"  Is  it  true,"  she  asked,  "  that  a  woman  always  has  her  own 
way?" 

"  They  say  so,  at  all  events,"  was  the  answer. 

"  And  if  two  women  have  the  sam.e  wish  and  the  same  hope 
and  only  one  man  to  say  no,  then  it  is  still  more  likely  he  will 
be  defeated  ?" 

"I  shouldn't  say  he  had  much  chance  myself,"  Jack  Melville 
said.     "  But  what's  your  conundrum,  now,  sweetheart  ?" 

"  Then  I  foresee  something,"  she  said.  *'  Yes,  I  see  that  we 
shall  have  to  ask  Mr.  Leslie  to  be  very  kind,  and  to  lend  us 
Duncan  Macdonald  for  an  evening.  Oh,  not  so  very  far  away 
— not  so  far  away  as  you  imagine ;  because,  you  know,  when  we 
have  all  gone  up  to  Monaglen  House,  and  we  are  all  inside,  going 
over  the  rooms — and  looking  here  and  there  with  a  great  curios- 
ity and  interest — or  perhaps  we  are  all  seated  in  the  dining-room, 
having  a  little  chat  together — then  what  will  you  say  if  all  at 
once  you  heard  the  pipes  outside,  and  what  do  you  think  Dun- 
can will  play,  on  such  an  evening  as  that,  if  not  Melville's  Wel- 
come Home  .^" 


THK    END. 


RETURN     CIRCULATION  DEPARTMENT 

TO— #^      202  Main  Library 

LOAN  PERIOD  1 
HOME  USE 

2 

3 

4 

5 

6 

ALL  BOOKS  MAY  BE  RECALLED  AFTER  7  DAYS 

Renewals  and  Recharges  may  be  made  4  days  prior  to  the  due  date. 

Books  may  be  Renewed  by  calling     642-3405. 

DUE  AS  STAMPED  BELOW 

JUN18  1992 

AUTO  DISC. 

MAR  ^  fi  lyy^ 

CIRCULATION 

UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA,  BERKELEY 
FORM  NO.  DD6                                BERKELEY,  CA  94720 

U.C. 


^''^yuB 


'^AfilBs 


^Sbl 


W. 


X  3 


C 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  IvIBRARY 


